


Love Slave

by ebonlock



Category: Cupid (TV 1998)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:43:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 32,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebonlock/pseuds/ebonlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trevor finds himself up for sale in a charity auction and you'll never guess who's the highest bidder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first lengthy fanfic ever, written way back in the late 90's when I was running the Cupid fanfic archive. And yes this story was inspired by the original Cupid series, not that atrocious "remake". If you've never seen the original I feel really bad for you as ABC has never seen fit to release it on DVD (a crime, a complete and utter crime).
> 
> For those unfamiliar with the series, here's what you need to know. Claire Allen is a therapist specializing in romance who runs a singles group in Chicago. She's working on a new book  
> but making very little headway when she's introduced to a rather unique mental patient who  
> believes he's Cupid, the god of love. She takes him on as a personal project, convinced that  
> she can "cure" him.
> 
> Now imagine a TV series with the kind of dialog and patter that you'd normally expect to find  
> in one of the fantastic 40's comedy romances (think "His Girl Friday") being delivered by Jeremy  
> Piven bouncing around the screen like a caffeinated ping-pong ball. The series contained one of  
> the all-time greatest bits of dialog in television history:  
>  _  
> "By Jove I think he's got it! And I know Jove, and he is bi."_
> 
>  
> 
> "Cupid" belongs to ABC television and Rob Thomas (put it out on DVD already!)

It was Friday night at Taggerdy's. Usually one of the two busiest nights of the week, on this particular evening people were crammed into every available foot of floorspace. Trevor noted with glee that you couldn't have fit a well oiled nymph between all the mortal men and women jostling, rubbing and otherwise making lots of very hopeful physical contact. There was enough friction in the bar area alone to heat downtown Chicago. All he asked from tonight was that a few of the physical sparks flaring to life around him would catch. If just one or two people made it past that bleary, rumpled morning after wake up surprise he might, just might get a bead or two from this evening's festivities. He was an eternal optimist, emphasis on the "eternal". After all, the god of love couldn't afford to be a glass half empty kinda guy.

Sure, tending a small Chicago bar was a long way from the vaulted halls of Mount Olympus, but all things considered, as far as punishments went this one really wasn't so horrible. After all Jupiter had been known to come up with some particularly nasty means of making others see things his way. Giant liver-pecking eagles, for one. It kind of put the notion of making endless Margaritas and dumping ash trays into perspective. Yeah things could be worse.

On the other hand, there was a certain degree of mean-spirited irony in the fact that he'd been set down amidst a city full of sexual revolution veterans, but was absolutely forbidden to make use of his own prodigious talents to bring a little personal joy to their lives. In other words he was under strict orders, look, don't touch. He wondered briefly if Pluto had made a snide suggestion or two to The Boss on the matter of his punishment. A little physical frustration mixed with psychological isolation, you had to hand it to 'em, it was pretty damn ingenious. Tantalus was now someone with whom Trevor could fully empathize.

Sighing gustily, he shook off the first creeping tendrils of depression before they could take root. He was determined that he wasn't going to spend another cold Midwestern evening gazing glumly over his earthly prison. Nope, tonight he was going to make a love connection if it killed him. All he needed was a hundred couples, just a hundred and he was back in the Olympians' good graces. And he already had...well, to be honest, pitifully few. Still, he was working without his powers here, no bow, no arrow, no nothing but his own cunning and centuries of experience. It was just taking a little time to get used to, that's all. He was just finding his stride, as soon as he shook off the two or three minor gaffs he'd made since receiving his eviction notice from the Mount he'd be fine.

Valentine's Day was his new goal. It just seemed so appropriate. The one day he actually got some attention and adoration from the modern heathens would mark his ascent back to the land of ambrosia. Three months seemed more than enough time to rack up the requisite love points. That thought alone put a smile back on his malleable features.

Rose, an auburn-haired firecracker of a waitress, staggered through the mass of humanity. She thrust her tray out like a shield and practically vaulted to the bar. "Trevor! Trevor, hey are you still single?"

That brought him up short, all the employees at Taggerdy's were well aware of his claims of godhood, and his psychologist Claire Allen's opinion on his somewhat shaky mental health. She couldn't actually be trying to set him up with someone, could she? "Ah, well that would depend on your definition of 'single'..."

"Are you seeing somebody right now?" she reiterated.

"I'm seeing lots of somebodies, lots of thirsty somebodies, so I've really gotta'..."

Rolling her dark eyes expressively, she grabbed his arm and growled, "Danny can handle the bar, right now I need your body."

His eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Right here? In front of everybody? Wow, Rose, I'd heard rumors about you, of course, but this exceeds even the infamous 'Alpha Ki Omega House Party' story. They say it's always the quiet ones."

"Keep dreaming, Trevor, and shake a tailfeather, we need another single guy to fill out our Bachelor Auction. Laurence backed out at the last minute and I need someone I'm reasonably sure won't hack whoever buys him into small, refrigerator-sized pieces. That means you."

"Um, Rose, in case you'd forgotten I am currently under psychiatric observation."

She grinned back at him, tugging him around the end of the bar and into the throng. "Oh I hadn't forgotten, I'll just tell the woman who gets you to lock up the silverware for the weekend."

"Wait--you--did you just say 'weekend'?" He twisted around in a vain attempt to catch a glimpse of his safehaven, but the bar completely obscured by bodies. Not even a single bar stool was in sight. His whimper was drowned out by the incessant thrum of the jukebox mixed with several dozen full volume conversations. When they reached a relatively clear spot near the small stage in the back Trevor pressed up close to Rose and muttered, "Why didn't you snag Danny for this little exercise in humiliation?"

"Danny's married," she reminded him rather primly, while removing his apron with a deft tug. "So quit your bitching and get that cute little ass of yours up on stage."

"Can't my cute little ass just watch this whole thing from the bar?" Trevor whined as the waitress gave him a firm push towards the other nervous, uncomfortable looking single guys. "I'm telling you, Rose, I could snap at any minute...I can legitimately plead insanity...I've got the papers and everything."

The determined woman had long since stopped paying any attention to him whatsoever and with a final shove herded him into a group of guys who might just as well have had the letter "L" tattooed on their foreheads. They all looked at him as if facing their own messy executions would be preferable to a horde of women who'd be eying them like meat on the hoof. In fact if there'd been a viable escape route he'd have happily lead the retreat, tail firmly between his legs. Alas he was about as likely to get out of here as a virgin was to sneak out of Caligula's palace.

An idea occurred to him and he brightened momentarily. "Hey, what about Champ? He's..."

"Already up on stage." Rose finished with a jerk of her thumb.

Indeed, his gorgeous roommate was already attracting the eye of nearly every woman in the assembled crowd. Of course the man had the physique of a young Adonis coupled with the sort of chocolate-bronze skin that seemed carved out of stone rather than flesh and blood. Add to that charm, wit, intelligence, and sincerity, a smile that would've put Helios to shame, and a penchant for reciting poetry and he was bound to be a hotter commodity than IBM stock.

Trevor wilted slightly and hit Rose with his most powerfully pathetic expression. It was the last act of a desperate man, and one he usually reserved for only the most dire predicaments. So far only Claire had managed to build up a resistance to it, though if he added a tear or two even the Ice Princess herself had been known to melt like an Eskimo Pie on a summer afternoon. Unfortunately Rose seemed naturally immune and shook her head firmly. "Sorry, Trev, this is for a good cause. We need to raise money for the homeless shelter around the corner, c'mon, be a sport."

Assuming his most martyred air, he finally slumped in defeat. Even a god knew when he was outclassed. "Of course you realize," he growled, "this means war."

"I thought you were the god of love." Rose quipped.

"Mom says I take after my dad, but I'd always assumed she was referring to my more obvious physical attributes."

\--

As Trevor ascended the stage he exchanged a rather rueful glance with Champ. Apparently his thespian roomie wasn't any too thrilled to be up here on the auction block either. Gazing out over the assembled crowd, Trevor spotted a familiar face here and there from the singles group he attended, and in his own mind at least, co-ran.

Suddenly a new song on the jukebox caught his attention at the same second that his dark eyes landed on a very familiar face indeed. Claire Allen smirked up at him from her perch near the stage as "Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?" played in the distance. Trevor felt his heart actually stop. Her expression said loud and clear that payback was a bitch, and for the first time since he'd been banished to this bustling berg, he truly regretted being such a smart-ass. He was going to pay all right. "I've been goosed..." he moaned, "Goosed by the Gods!"

Champ followed his gaze and smirked. "I'd say that's a pretty safe bet. She's gonna' own you before the night is through."

"We shall see oh tall, dark and gloating one." Trevor's eyes were flitting around the room once more, taking in everything and everyone and processing all the information with the speed of a Pentium II. "So who's responsible for unloading this merchandise on the unsuspecting women of Chicago?"

"Local radio personality, name's Doug Sopp, or the Soppster, WGRR." The actor/bouncer rolled his eyes dramatically to express his enthusiasm. "The man's a morning d.j."

His roommate shuddered. "So we're talking loads of inane chatter, completely assanine jokes, and all the sparkling wit of your average fast food employee...Leads one to believe that perhaps 'radio personality' is a bit of a contradiction in terms."

"You've just described the Soppster to a 't', we are in for one long night."

"That so?" Champ actually groaned aloud when he caught sight of the expression on his roommate's face. Trevor's grin merely widened and he wagged his eyebrows in a particularly lecherous manner. "Care to place a little dinero on that?"

"If by 'dinero' you mean money, then no," the other replied frostily. "The desperate need for money is what put me on this stage in the first place." He paused and eyed his companion speculatively. "What exactly are you doing up here? I thought you were planning on encouraging a few of the sales from the other side of the transaction."

Trevor grimaced and muttered, "Rose drafted me for duty after Laurence weenied out. Looks like I'm supposed to take one for the home team tonight. It never fails to amaze me to what levels of personal degradation one can be driven in order to pay the rent."

"You know I've done a lot of embarrassing things since becoming a 'starving artist', but I think this one may well go down as rock bottom."

"Yeah well at least you have a chance of getting out of here with someone who'll be content with a romantic dinner and a little dancing. Unless I miss my guess Claire will have a few more...imaginative...ideas in mind for me. I'm thinking something involving a heaping helping of humiliation and menial labor. Of course, that's assuming she's the top bidder."

Champ looked at him askance. "I'm sorry to say this, but Trevor your current state of mental health isn't going to be a big selling point. And then we've got the Soppster to deal with..."

"Ah yes." Trevor gazed over at the master of ceremonies for the evening's festivities with an obvious sneer. The man was dressed in an ill-fitting tuxedo, one that had (to put it mildly) seen better days. In fact, Trevor was pretty sure he could spot at least two old pasta stains from a good twenty feet away. His tie and cummerbund were both made from a fabric that could very well have been manufactured and proudly worn during the decade of the seventies. His long, dirty brown hair was pulled into a rather clumsy pony tail and he had the kind of figure that screamed 'I spend eight hours a day sitting on my ass.' In short it was a pretty safe bet that Doug still lived in his folks' basement and drove a Firebird. Trevor sighed, "This will not do."

Before the pondering god of love could act, the Soppster stepped up to a nearby microphone and tapped it until the feedback caused everybody in the bar to wince dramatically. "Heh, guess it's working." He paused as if waiting for a laugh, when none seemed forthcoming, he shrugged and continued, "Well, good evening ladies and gents...and particularly you ladies. Tonight you're in for a real treat, Taggerdy's in conjunction with my very own WGRR, 'Grrr, Radio!', welcome you to the 'First Annual Bachelor Auction for the Homeless'."

The audience applauded and hooted its approval as Simon LeBon crooned "Hungry Like the Wolf" on the jukebox. Doug waited patiently for the crowd to settle down before announcing, "Ladies, I want you to dig deep in those purses of yours tonight, because we have got a selection of the finest male specimens in metropolitan Chicago. And any one of these gorgeous studs can be yours for an entire weekend..." He drew out the last word and gave the women time to scream, holler, and wolf whistle to their collective hearts' content. "But more than that, gals, you can also help out Chicago's homeless. So I wanna see a checkbook in everybody's hands, 'cause this auction is now officially underway!"

Trevor eyed Doug keenly as he approached the milling merchandise just off the right side of the stage. When the man reached for Champ's arm, Trevor moved to intercept him. "Doug, Dougie, man you can't put my buddy up there first."

The d.j. glared at him and growled, "Why not?"

"Because you don't start with the filet mignon when you've got a case full of ground chuck to unload." He tugged Sopp aside and murmured, "Look, you've gotta' put a few of the, shall we say 'less fortunate' up there first. Warm the crowd up, get 'em in a spending mood. Save Champ for when the crowd's already whipped into a frenzy, I guarantee he'll bring in a small fortune."

"You've done this kind of thing before?" Doug actually seemed surprised.

"Only in the Athenian slave market," Trevor returned, his expression utterly ingenuous.

The other man did a startled double take, then shrugged and reached for a rather reluctant Nick. The singles group member gazed forlornly at Trevor who clapped him on the shoulder and cried out, "Go get 'em, Tiger!"

Doug presented his first bachelor with all the flair of a sideshow barker. For his part, Nick looked like he'd happily sink through the stage and right on down to the basement should the opportunity present itself. He slumped dejectedly and gave a half-hearted wave to the crowd. "Ok ladies, you see before you a prime specimen, a handsome gent named..." He leaned over from the microphone and whispered, "What's your name?"

"N-Nick..."

"Nick here is ready to show one of you lucky gals the weekend of her life. Yes ma'am, he's obviously the kinda' guy who knows how to treat a lady. So do we have any bids?"

The only sound in the place for several seconds was the song "Girlfriend". Everyone seemed to be staring at the stage expectantly. Doug was beginning to sweat and Nick looked like he was about to bolt.

Champ shook his head slowly. "He's dyin' up there."

Trevor rolled his eyes. "Rigor mortis has already set in. The man must be stopped." With that he leapt out into the center of the stage, much to Doug and Nick's amazement, and relief. The d.j.'s saccharine smile faded as Trevor put an arm around his shoulders and leaned in to speak into the mic. "I think what my friend Doug here was trying to say is that sure Nick looks like he's ready for a casting call for Saturday Night Fever III." He paused to give his friend a conciliatory glance before going on, "But ladies, I can guarantee you that my boy here has hidden talents." A snicker ran through the assembled crowd and he grinned. "Get your minds out of the gutter! Though I cannot personally vouch for this man's abilities in the bedroom I can tell you that he is a genius with anything mechanical or electrical. Tell me something," Trevor leaned down, pulling the mic and Doug with him. Pointing at a blonde in the front row nursing a Bud Light, he asked, "Do you have any gadgets around the house that haven't worked in years? Maybe a Honda Civic that's been making a weird little 'Kak, kak' sound?"

The woman smiled hesitantly and nodded. "Then I am here to tell you you can't afford not to bid on this man. Think of what a weekend with your own personal handyman could mean; no more leering repairmen, no more condescending mechanics. I ask you all, is there a woman here who couldn't find something for my man Nicky here to do?"

The crowd cheered and several women raised their hands immediately. "And did I mention that he tells a helluva Camaro story?" Several more hands went up as Trevor easily slipped the mic from Doug's loose grip. "Who's got a number for me? C'mon, just yell it out!"

"Fifty!"

Trevor grimaced and muttered, "Why that's almost an insult. Who's got a real bid?"

"One hundred!"

"Now that's more like it we've got a hundred, who can do better?"

Within seconds the total was nearing three hundred dollars and Trevor was convinced the woman who seemed determined to get her hands on Nick was the best he could hope for. "We got two seventy five, any other bidders?" A sweep of the bar confirmed his suspicions. "Right, the lady in the Flashdance outfit goes home with the prize. Ok, Jennifer Beals, just make your way over to the table to your right and pay the nice waitress and you can claim your man." He turned to the bachelors to choose his next sales success and noted that the once glum men had cheered up quite a bit with Nick's purchase.


	2. Chapter 2

The evening actually started to fly by as Trevor made his way through his stock with unerring speed and skill. Doug had ceded the stage after his success with Nick and contented himself with a Tom Collins while he watched a real salesman at work. For his part, Trevor was beginning to think he'd lucked out. He'd managed to set up at least one or two couples this evening who had at least the potential for sparks and he was really starting to enjoy himself to boot.

Winking at Champ, he gestured for the handsome actor to join him. His roommate grimaced and crossed the stage with more than a little reluctance. Trevor, however, was in extremely high spirits and could smell some major money about to be spent. He placed a hand on Champ's shoulder and twisted to face the audience with his most charming smile. "All right, this is it, the creme de la creme. All you gals with just enough cash left to get home on take a few steps back, I want the big spenders only right up front here."

A few grinning, well dressed women made their way up to the stage, each clutching designer purses and checkbooks. Trevor released his friend and knelt down to talk directly to them. "I don't have to give you a sales pitch here, do I? I mean let's be totally honest, the man's got a body that Brad Pitt would kill for. But there's more than brawn there, oh yeah, he's got the brains to match. And just between us, he doesn't know the meaning of the phrase, 'one night stand'. Gorgeous body, sincerity, and the soul of a poet. And did I mention that my boy here has overcome a rather unfortunate parental name selection? Not that 'Champ's' a tremendous improvement...kinda reminds me of an overenthusiastic Terrier. 'Atta boy, Champ, Champie, Champaroo, go get the ball!" Trevor pantomimed a game of fetch with flair. "And that's what I want you to think when you look at my roomie here, a big, cuddly, friendly puppy dog."

His audience was positively mesmerized and Champ was doing his best not to bury his face in his hands. "Need I say more? Ok, let's skip the chump change phase and get right down to business, shall we? Who wants my buddy here on their arm for a corporate function this weekend, hmm? Who's gonna' have the best looking escort at the opera? C'mon, ladies, speak to me."

"Five hundred!" one of the women gasped.

"Seven hundred!" another chimed in.

"You're speaking my language, but I need to hear a little more."

A red-head with very serious brown eyes purred, "A thousand."

The entire crowd gasped in unison and waited in breathless anticipation to see if there would be a next bid. "We have a thousand, and that's a nice round number. Plenty of zeroes. But I'm thinking we can do better."

"Eleven hundred." the blonde with a bob put in.

The red-head pursed her lips and piped up, "Twelve hundred."

"Oh yeah, now you're talkin'." Trevor's eyes were positively glowing.

"Thirteen hundred."

"Fourteen."

"Fifteen."

Trevor glanced back to see if Champ appreciated the bidding war he'd inspired. His roomie looked positively aghast.

"Sixteen."

The red-head crossed her arms, straightened to her full 5'9" and growled, "Two thousand."

Only the artist formerly known as Prince had the audacity to make a sound as he mezzo-sopranoed, "Kiss". Even Trevor seemed momentarily speechless. The tension was positively agonizing. Finally, the blonde slumped and waved her hand in defeat.

Trevor leapt to his feet and crowed, "My boy Champ is going home with a woman of exquisite taste and a near bottomless bank account. Can I get a hand for the lady?"

The crowd went nuts, howling its approval and glee. He grinned and gestured for Champ to make his way over to the table where the woman was even now filling out a hefty little check. The homeless shelter was going to be in for some serious moolah after this night's festivities. Waving to the crowd he called out, "That's it, gals, thanks for coming..."

Several voices cut right through the festivities to bellow, "What about you?"

As the expectant eyes of several dozen revelers once again riveted themselves to the stage Trevor found himself squirming a bit. "Ah, well, see I was just standing in for..."

"C'mon," someone who sounded suspiciously like a certain vengeful psychologist called out, "we want a chance at you!"

The Soppster raised his glass to second the notion. He seemed to consider actually getting up to take up his M.C. duties once more, then wobbled dangerously, and decided against it.

Trevor fought off a blush with some difficulty and wondered if he could make it out the emergency exit before Champ caught him. The look on his roommate's face made it clear that he wouldn't make it halfway to the door. 'Damn.' he thought miserably, turning once again to face the crowd. He managed a deep breath and straightened up to face his doom. "Ok, who am I to deny myself to you lovely maidens? You want me, you got me."

Before he could even finish Claire was raising her hand and yelling out, "A hundred!"

He shot her a 'die slowly and painfully' look before spreading his hands wide and appealing to the audience as a whole. "C'mon now, a hundred? That's pathetic. My roommate just went for two thousand!"

A few more bids brought the total up to two hundred fifty, but Claire was still in the lead which made Trevor more than a little nervous. "Right," he growled softly to himself, "Time to pull out all the stops." Putting down the mic just long enough to pull off his sweater, he was greeted with several hearty wolf whistles. Clad now in a white wife-beater that showed off his own rather impressive physique, he grabbed the mic once more. "Now I want you all to imagine having at your beck and call for this weekend a man with a prodigious skills in a variety of areas. To name just a few, I can mix any drink known to man, make a mean baklava, and have literally centuries worth of massage skill in these talented digits." He gazed rather lustily at the assembled audience and waggled his fingers in a decidedly meaningful manner.

The women in the crowd were a few togas and a man to dismember away from a Bacchanlia by the time he finished. Quickly the bids began to escalate until they were just shy of a thousand and Trevor was beginning to think he might just get out of this evening with his dignity intact. "You wanna' go dancing? Baby, I'm your Boogie Man." To emphasize the point he did an impromptu grind and hip thrust that would've done Gypsy Rose Lee proud. "With one small exception I am yours to command for the weekend..literally. Name it and I'll do it, believe me, I have neither inhibitions nor an ounce of bashfulness." He made sure to emphasize the point with a smoldering look at several of the already giddy audience members.

The bids once again began climbing, though a bit more slowly this time, and finally came to a halt just shy of seventeen hundred. With absolute glee Trevor noted that the final bid that seemed likely for the evening came from a blonde with short-cropped hair and a wicked smile. The only downside was the knowledge that the images his mind was currently conjuring up involving her luscious body and various ice cream toppings would have to remain in the realm of fantasy. Ah well, all things considered it was a small price to pay.

Before he could begin gloating in earnest a voice turned his blood to ice. "Eighteen hundred."

He couldn't look, if he met her eyes he'd have to acknowledge the bid...and with it his doom. No, this just couldn't be happening. A soft whimper escaped his throat as he dragged his eyes up to meet the blonde's. She looked apologetic and shrugged a little helplessly. His face fell and he looked skyward for a moment sending out a silent plea to Zeus. 'C'mon, don't let your favorite grand kid down.' Alas, as with most of his requests to the management lately, this one went unheeded. When he finally dragged his eyes back down to Earth they met with those of a smirking Claire Allen.


	3. Chapter 3

Jaclyn stood beside her smug boss and waved happily as Trevor rather reluctantly joined them. "Hey Cup- er, Trevor. You were really great up there!"

He attempted to form some sort of friendly response, then settled for a noncommittal grunt. Trevor actually liked the fiery-haired secretary, even if she was a minion of his nemesis. At least she was willing to call him by his real name...at least when the boss lady wasn't around to glower darkly at her for it.

"Ok, we need to talk logistics here," the disgruntled god of love grumbled. "Where, when and how do you want me, Mistress?" The way he lingered on the word actually made Claire wince. "It seems you own me for the weekend, a whole forty-eight hours in which to tax the limits of that diabolically brilliant mind of yours. I'm kinda hoping you're inventive enough to get your money's worth; though I do have my doubts." Trevor batted his eyelids at her flirtatiously and delighted in the flush of anger spreading over Claire's face.

She nodded abruptly. "All right, why don't we say noon tomorrow, at my office. And Sunday..mmm, eight on the dot at my home."

"Wait," Trevor leaned forward and cupped an ear in order to make certain he was hearing correctly. "Did you say eight on Sunday? As in a.m.? Isn't there a law against that?"

She pursed her lips. "No, as bizarre as it may seem some people actually do get up before one in the afternoon on the weekend."

"Why?" Trevor asked guilelessly. He exchanged a puzzled glance with Jaclyn, who shrugged with equal confusion.

"Well, there's church..." Claire began rather weakly.

Rolling his eyes and assuming his most put upon expression he muttered, "Christians! Only a people as deeply devoted to masochism as they could possibly require their adherents to crawl out of their nice comfy beds at that hour of the morning. And for what? For some uptight, sexually repressed man in a dress to tell them all how disgustingly vile they are for basically engaging in all the acts that make life worth living, that's what. No lying, no coveting, no drinking, no boffing..." he ticked each off with a finger before continuing in a rather impassioned voice, "Why not just have a single commandment, 'No fun for anybody!' and be done with it? At least my followers had some incentive for showing up with the weekly offerings. I mean they were getting something out of the deal, usually a really cute and cuddly someone to spend their lives with."

He shook his head rather sadly before continuing, "Ya know I told gramps he should do something about the whole monotheism nonsense before it really took root. But would he listen? Oh no. I'm only the God of Love, what would I possibly know about it?"

"Trevor..."

"Now if dad had mentioned it..."

"Trevor!"

"..or even that knucklehead, Pan..."

"Trevor, enough!" Claire knew if she didn't put the brakes on his rant before he got a full head of steam on she'd lose any pretense of control over the situation. "I just wrote a check for eighteen hundred dollars." He nodded once. "I own you for the weekend." Trevor nodded again. "And you will be at my office tomorrow at noon, then at my house at eight a.m. sharp on Sunday. Am I making myself clear?"

He bobbed his head obediently, then asked, "So how should I dress? Formal? Casual? Leather thong and a dog collar?"

"As appealing a notion as leashing you might be," Claire growled, "I think casual dress will be fine." Then she tilted her head to the side and one eyebrow shot up. "Just out of curiosity, do you actually own any formal wear?"

"No, but I figure what my mistress wants, my mistress gets."

Claire blushed hotly. "Don't call me that!"

"What?" Trevor was doing his best to portray an air of complete innocence, and failing miserably. "Mistress? But that's what you are, aren't you? I mean you just purchased my bod for the weekend. That makes me your slave and you my mistress. Or would you prefer some other title? Ma'am? Fraulein? Goddess? I might have a little trouble saying the last one with a straight face, but I'm willing to try..."

"Claire, you can call me Claire or Dr. Allen, that's it."

"Ja wohl!" he barked, saluting smartly.

Sighing, Claire rubbed the bridge of her nose and wondered if this little revenge plot of hers wasn't about to backfire rather spectacularly. "Just be at my office by noon tomorrow, all right?"

"Yes Ma'am, noon tomorrow, Ma'am, I'll be there." He bowed with a flourish and turned to head back to the bar. Before he got more than a few steps, he tossed back, "Are you sure about the leather thong? Cause I don't own one, but I could improvise..."

"No, I'm sure the French maid's uniform I bought will fit you just fine," the psychologist returned without missing a beat.

Trevor actually froze, his face undergoing a rather dramatic series of transformations. First, shock, then concern, disbelief, and finally grudging respect. With a brief, congratulatory nod he conceded a point. "Guess I'd better wax my legs tonight then, huh?" Parting shot fired, he silently awarded himself the set, the match however, was still up for grabs.


	4. Chapter 4

Claire glanced up from the case file she'd been studying and quirked one elegant eyebrow as Trevor burst into the office. It occurred to her that the man had never simply "walked" in, or quietly entered. No, he felt compelled to make a dramatic appearance...not unlike a natural disaster.

He bustled in, crossed to the desk and leaned over to rest his elbows on the very edge. His chin plunked down on top of both knuckles and he grinned at her in such a way as to send her other eyebrow climbing. "As you commanded..."

The psychologist's lips wanted desperately to quirk into a smile, but she stifled the impulse by thinning them sternly. "You're actually here on time, well, will miracles never cease?"

"Probably not as long as a deity's involved. Though I should add when someone's lived for over five millennia 'punctuality' takes on a whole different meaning. I once showed up to a meeting with Artemis a decade late. She was only slightly peeved."

"Artemis?"

"Diana..goddess of the moon...kinda the 'Sporty Spice' of our pantheon."

Claire nodded sagely, leave it to Trevor to mix classical mythology and the Spice Girls. "Of course."

"So." he began, glancing curiously around the office, as if expecting some monumental change in the past twenty-four hours. "I've gotta say I'm a little disappointed, I was thinking you'd have a camera crew here to immortalize my humiliation. But nada, zilch, zip."

"This isn't about humiliation, Trevor." Claire felt just a touch smug when she managed to get that sentence out with an actual ring of sincerity.

Her patient let out a bark of laughter. "Then you just wasted a whole lot of money, Dr. Allen."

"Oh I wouldn't say that. I intend to treat today as an experiment, call it 'Reality Conditioning'. Can Trevor Hale exhibit a degree of self-control and distance himself from his delusions in the face of near overwhelming temptation?" She watched his eyebrows draw together and his eyes narrow with suspicion. "You're going to sit out there at Jackie's desk and answer the phone, take care of my patients until I'm ready to see them, and organize some files for me. And you're going to do it strictly as Trevor Hale, temp receptionist. Am I making myself perfectly clear?"

"That's it?" The grin that had faltered and died during her proclamation burst once more into full bloom. "I can do that." Then he tipped his head and gave her a sly look. "Wait a minute, this isn't just an excuse for you to play 'Naive Secretary and Horny Psychologist' is it? Cause if so I really wish you'd told me, I would've brought along a few props...at least a pair of glasses you could oh so casually remove from my face. 'Why Mr. Hale, you're so...attractive without these on!'" He uttered the last in a falsetto voice while making a show of taking off imaginary eyewear.

"I'm afraid that behavior went out with beehives, Trevor, sorry to ruin your illusions about the modern workplace. Nowadays someone behaving like that winds up on the receiving end of a sexual harassment suit."

"Killjoy."

Claire ignored the comment and stood, straightening her suit jacket primly. "Speaking of the modern workplace I'd better show you how to work the phone and get you started on the files." She gestured him out into the main hall and led him to Jackie's somewhat cluttered work area. Pointing to the phone she began, "Now this..."

"Would be that modern marvel of technology we call the 'telephone'?" he cut in smoothly.

Folding her arms she took a deep cleansing breath before continuing, "Very good, Trevor, since you're obviously so familiar with the device why don't you show me how to put someone on hold, and how you'd use the intercom to announce a patient."

He slid into place behind the desk and studied the various buttons on the phone's surface for several long seconds. "I'm going to take a wild guess here and say that the 'hold' button would be the one I'd push if I wanted to keep somebody on the line. Say, does your phone system actually play music when someone's holding? I've never actually called before showing up so I don't really..."

"Yes, that's the correct button and yes the system plays what some might call 'music' while a caller's on hold. It's Muzak actually, usually something by Lionel Richie or Elton John. Every time I call the department chair I invariably end up listening to 'Candle in the Wind'."

Trevor shuddered. "If it's all right with you I'm going to try to avoid putting anyone on hold...it sounds like a fate worse than death." He punched the red intercom button and spoke into the receiver, "Paging Dr. Allen, paging Dr. Allen." Smiling when he heard his voice echo in her office he asked, "Looks like I've got a basic grasp of telephone usage, care to tell me what else I've got to master today in order to fulfill my duties as receptionist?"

"See that stack of files?" She gestured to a rather top heavy pile of folders that had to be at least four feet tall. He winced and nodded, not liking where this was going one little bit. "I want all of them in order and put into that filing cabinet. They're mainly former patients' records that have been stacking up for the past few months. It's Jackie's least favorite job."

"Remind me to thank her the next time I see her. Ok, files, phone, and patients, right?"

"Right, just ask them their name when they come up to the desk, check the calendar and confirm that they have an appointment. If they're on time, buzz me in the office and tell me they're here. I'll tell you when to send them in. If I'm tied up on the phone or they're more than a few minutes early just ask them to have a seat."

"Gotcha. And that's really all I'm supposed to be doing today?" He sighed and shook his head.

"No, that's not all you're doing today, what you're doing is proving to me that you can spend at least a few hours acting like a normal, sane, mortal man. I don't even want to hear the name 'Cupid' leave your lips today, nor the phrase 'god of love', or any further references to the Greco-Roman pantheon. And you're not to even contemplate gaining any beads. No butting in, no interfering in others' lives. Just do precisely what I've told you, and if you have any questions ask. Ok?"

Trevor nodded and shrugged slightly. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I've got it." He slumped into the adjustable office chair and viewed the files to his left glumly.

Claire just smiled and turned to walk briskly into her office. When Trevor's phone rang she paused at her doorway to watch him snatch it up. He opened his mouth to answer it, then paused for half a second. Her dark eyes skewered him instantly and his face fell. Whatever he'd been about to say was replaced by, "Dr. Allen's office, how may I help you?"

The psychologist felt an almost giddy rush of power, for the first time since she'd met him, Trevor Hale was actually doing precisely what she'd told him. "Talk about miracles." she muttered under her breath. Insufferably pleased with herself, she continued into her office and shut the door with a decisive "snick".

Trevor absently listened to the telemarketer on the other end of the line while pondering his current predicament. If anyone had told him he'd one day end up playing receptionist to his sadistic psychologist he'd have giggled himself sick. He was a god for Zeus' sake, and not one of those minor backwoods pond-squatting deities either. He was the God of Love! Hymns had once sung his praises, temples were erected to honor him, mortals had showered him in offerings of gold, gems, and scented oils. Sure it'd been a while since he'd received any serious worship, but mortals still knew him. They still sculpted his image and wrote songs about him. Ok, admittedly his name now often invoked visions of diaper clad, winged urchins with heart-tipped arrows; but at least they knew who he was.

The man on the other end of the line was completely oblivious to his listener's current metaphysical quandary. He blithely continued to drone on about the merits of a subscription to Vanity Fair until Trevor blurted out, "Do you like what you do?"

"Uh..." There was a long pause. "Excuse me?"

"I mean do you suppose you were destined by the Fates to live out your days peddling magazines over the telephone? When you were a little tyke was this how you saw your life turning out? Didja' think, 'Gee, when I grow up, I'm going to become a telemarketer'?"

"I...uh...l-let me go over some of the bonus gifts you will receive with your subscription..."

"I've always known that I was destined for my line of work. Ok, maybe not the specific responsibilities I'd end up shouldering, but to be totally honest I just wasn't cut out to take up my dad's business."

"D-did I mention that you'd be saving sixty cents off the cover price?" The guy was starting to sound more than a little harried.

"The sight of blood makes me heave, so the thought - the mere thought of encouraging people to spill it - well, it just wasn't going to happen. And hey, I'd always been closer to mom anyway, so it was perfectly natural that I'd follow in her footsteps. One of those 'lover not a fighter' types, ya know?" He paused and took a deep, rather melodramatic breath. "I tried to do a good job. I mean at first I was really serious about the work. But at some point I just lost interest. Can you blame me, though? It was the same thing day in, day out. Year after monotonous year. Of course, my performance was going to falter. Do you think they would take that into consideration? Oh no, not my family! They make the Ewings look like Ma and Pa Cleaver! Instead they devise a little combination punishment/learning experience for me. And now I'm sitting here in a shrink's office in Chicago listening to you attempt to hock a few mags."

"Uh, listen, are you going to take a subscription?"

Trevor merely sighed forlornly and hung up the phone. Lowering his head he rested it heavily on his crossed arms. The temptation to bang it repeatedly on the hard wood desk was almost overwhelming. Before he could carry through with the impulse the phone rang once again. He stole a glance at the office door before saying, "Temple of Love, Eros speaking."

The giggle on the other end was unmistakeably Jaclyn's. "Hey Trev! I thought you usually answered to Cupid."

"I just thought Eros sounded more distinguished."

She laughed, "Oh yeah, definitely more distinguished. Say, isn't 'Temple of Love' a Peter Murphy song?"

"Sisters of Mercy, but it's an honest mistake." Omniscience had its perks. "So, to what do I owe this pleasure? Surely you've got better things to do on a Saturday than call your office. I find it hard to believe that the ravishing Jaclyn needs to check in with work to get her jollies."

"'Ravishing'?" Trevor could almost see the delighted grin lighting up her expressive features. "Oh, I just wanted to tell you I left ya a little something in the top drawer of my desk." She waited for him to pull it open. "It's a bag of that peanut butter candy you like so much."

"Jackie, when I get back to Olympus I'm going to have a constellation named after you!"

"That'd be nice," she returned. "Just don't, like, turn me into a tree or a flower or something, ok? Seems like a lot of cute chicks ended up that way in the myths."

"Scout's honor." The phrase came out a bit jumbled as he happily stuffed candy into his mouth. "You're not going to rat me out to the Great and Powerful Claire, are you? I mean about the 'Temple of Love' thing?"

"Nah, just be sure she doesn't catch you doing it, she promised dire things if she did"

"'Dire'? Somebody's been playing scrabble with their mom again, haven't they? Mmm, thank you so much for the treats, they are just what I needed to lift my spirits."

"Aww, what's wrong?"

"You mean aside from the fact that I'm an indentured servant for the weekend? And that I've got a stack of files to organize that could give the Leaning Tower of Pisa a run for its money? Or that I've got zippo chance of scoring any beads while I'm stuck here?"

"Yeah, aside from that." Jaclyn quipped, and he could almost see her twirling an auburn lock around one finger. "It could be worse, ya know."

"Oh yeah, how?"

"Wait'll you see what she has in store for you tomorrow."

Trevor groaned and buried his face in his hands. He suddenly felt like Oedipus getting rather grim tidings from the Pythia...at least Oedie only ended up killing his dad and marrying mom...and giving Freudians a cute name for a mother complex, of course. "Just tell me she was kidding about the French maid's outfit."

"I think so." Then she amended, "Probably."

"If I weren't immortal I'd shoot myself. Ok, ok, I can handle this, it's not that bad...and it's only one weekend, right?"

"Absolutely! And since you've lived over five thousand years, one weekend is like, what? A blink of an eye, right?"

"You are so correct. It's not even like a total blink, more like a partial blink...like a flinch." That analogy seemed almost disturbingly accurate. "Still, weekends are my busiest days. Far more likely to score a bead or two on Saturdays and Sundays. Probably has something to do with the high percentage of alcohol consumption, of course, not to mention recreational drug use. It's a crying shame you mortals limit yourself to two days of debauchery per week. Makes my task that much harder."

"You could look at it as a challenge."

"I'm already working without my bow and arrows here, Jackie. That's enough of a challenge, believe me. And I thought this was going to be so easy...I even bet the Muses I could have one hundred couples knockin' boots inside of a month. There's going to be Tartarus to pay when I get back. Calliope's never going to let me live this down. Nobody gloats like a Muse, let me tell you." Suddenly a noise from the office caught his attention. "Jinkies, Velma, sounds like the Dragon Lady's stirring in her lair, better get my nose back to the grindstone."

"Catch ya later, Cup-er-Trevor."

Setting the receiver back on its cradle, Trevor was about to turn his attention to the files when a nervous looking woman in a flower print dress practically ran into the desk. "I know it's a Saturday and I really appreciate Dr. Allen coming in to talk to me today. It's so hard to find a therapist who's really there when you need them, you know? But I don't have to tell you what a consummate professional she is, do I?" Trevor managed an open-mouthed nod before she rambled on, "I mean you must know what a rare and wonderful individual she is, right? I bet you've never actually had a session with her, have you?" He started to reply and ended up making a vague shrugging gesture. Not that she was paying much attention. "Of course not, a handsome, bright young man like you." Trevor waved off the remark with a smile. "Why I'm sure you have no trouble at all maintaining a stable and fulfilling relationship." Glancing down at his ring finger she noted, "Still single I see, well you're young, there's plenty of time to meet Ms. Right. Though I bet you have no trouble finding a 'Ms. Right Now', am I wrong?"

"Oh, actually I'm currently giving celibacy a try. You know, just for a change of pace." Trevor blurted out while the hyperactive woman paused to take a breath.

"Well good for you! It takes a very mature person to look for more than just sex. I can't tell you how rare it is to meet a man who's giving that lifestyle a try...well, outside of the clergy anyway. And you can't be too sure about most of them these days if you know what I mean." They shared a knowing look and slow nod.

"So, ah, what was your name?"

The woman blinked in surprise. "Oh, how silly of me! Here I am prattling on like a goose when I should be telling you who the heck I am. Miss Coleman, right there," she leaned over and pointed to her name on the appointment calendar. "I prefer 'Miss' to 'Ms.', just a personal thing. It was the way I was raised, you see."

"Uh-huh." Trevor grabbed the phone and made a few stabbing motions at the intercom button while continuing to nod and fake something akin to interest in Miss Coleman's rambling. When he heard Claire answer he quickly murmured, "Uh, Dr. Allen, Miss Coleman is here."

There was a moment of absolute silence on the other end. He was pretty sure Claire was trying to figure out when he'd been replaced by an exact, but obedient duplicate. She recovered and replied, "Good..that's good. Um, show her in."

Trevor hung up the phone and leaped to his feet. "Dr. Allen will see you now." he said, leading her quickly to the door. She preceded him into the office after he swung the door open for her. Behind her back his dark eyes connected with Claire's and he mouthed the word, 'Prozac', then rolled his eyes and ducked out once more.


	5. Chapter 5

Claire Allen, respected psychotherapist and renowned relationship expert was embarrassed to note that she was simply going through the motions with Angela Coleman. She owed her patient more than that. It was unprofessional to say the least. One might even go so far as to label it unethical. And it was entirely Trevor's fault.

Well, admittedly it wasn't all his fault, but since she'd met the intriguing and often infuriating mass of enthusiasm and delusion that was Trevor Hale she'd become accustomed to blaming nearly everything imaginable on him. Wake up at two a.m. from a deep sleep by the ringing of a phone? Trevor's fault. Run in her last pair of pantyhose? Ditto. Break a nail? Yep, Trevor's fault. Ok, so usually he had nothing to do with her inability to catch a green light when she was running late. Or, at least, she didn't think so... It was about the only concession she was willing to make.

More often than not, though, when her face was hot with anger and steam was about to come shooting out of her ears it was either directly or indirectly related to him. When had he become such a central figure in her existence? It was nearly impossible to pinpoint the exact moment, not quite the first time they'd met, but certainly not long after. Scary thought, that. What was even scarier was the fact that she was sitting in her office with a patient on whom her attention should be trained, and yet all she could think about was Trevor.

At first she attributed it to the fact that she was quite convinced he was out there right now quietly undermining her authority. The thought had occurred that leaving her office door open might be a wise precaution. But she couldn't do that while in session with a patient, and she'd wanted to establish her authority right from the get go. 'The door is closed because I don't need to keep it open, I know you're doing what you're told,' was the implicit message she'd hoped to send.

So far it seemed to be working. After all he'd done precisely what she'd asked him to. At least he was doing a good impression of obeying her commands to the letter. Of course that meant precisely nothing when it came to him. He had an unerring way of bypassing any and all rules, particularly her own.

'Stop it.' she told herself sternly. Angela came here expecting a professional therapy session. She was certainly paying enough for it, and Claire was determined to give it to her. With a final speculative glance at the door she straightened her spectacles and determined to give Trevor the benefit of the doubt...for the moment.

\--

There was an old saying, "A watched pot never boils". Strictly speaking it was about as accurate as any old wives' tale...in other words, not very. What it should have said was, "A watched pot seems to take just about forever to boil". That was certainly quite true.

And it didn't just apply to pots, no siree. It also applied to clocks, Trevor Hale could personally attest to this fact. For the past hour he'd been staring at the round-faced clock on the wall to his left. It was almost hypnotic watching that seconds hand slowly whirling around and around. The funny thing was, the time didn't seem to be changing; in fact, he was beginning to think the seconds hand was actually starting to move slower and slower. He wouldn't be the slightest bit surprised if on its next revolution it stopped altogether.

Now he accepted the fact that for the most part (without divine intervention, of course) time was a constant. But he could swear that despite such universal laws, somehow, some way in this office time was quietly grinding to a halt.

Jaw hanging open, and eyes burning from the effort to maintain uninterrupted vision of his nemesis, Trevor was beginning to take on the appearance of a man after his first electroshock session. Shaking his head abruptly, he blinked and snapped his mouth shut abruptly. This was getting ridiculous.

His dark eyes slid reluctantly to the precarious pile of files. He stared at that for an additional five minutes, most of it again unblinking. Sadly, it was becoming painfully obvious that simply willing the pile to arrange itself wasn't going to make it so. That seemed rather unfair. Sure, the laws of time could be circumvented in order to prolong his suffering, but he couldn't get away with just a little mind over matter wish fulfillment?

Folding his arms, he bobbed his head at the heap in his best Barbara Eden impersonation. Nothing. Same with his "Bewitched" nose twitch. "This sucks." The words echoed off the oak paneled walls and stucco ceiling of the vault like corridor. For a minute he had an intense flashback to the marbled halls of his temple on Crete. It gave the statement a rather impressive ring. Like a royal proclamation or a divine declaration.

There was a certain degree of satisfaction to be gleaned from the fact that, as a defunct god (temporarily, of course) he could still talk the talk if not walk the walk. On the whole it didn't raise his spirits much, but at this point anything was an improvement.

He'd noted that here on the mortal plane of existence he'd become, in a word, moody. Admittedly about ninety percent of the time that moodiness expressed itself as a near manic level of energy and intense enthusiasm. There were times, though, that his spirits dipped to an almost frightening low; where even dragging himself out of bed in the morning became a chore of Herculean proportions. That whole fiasco with Helen had given him a glimpse of what the phrase "rock bottom" actually referred to, but it wasn't just the magnificent failures of his new existence that were beginning to weigh him down. Heck, a ridiculously tilting stack of paperwork was beginning to make him long for a nice big, shiny bus to toss himself under.

"Gotta' stop this," he muttered, standing up and giving his arms and wrists a good hard shake. "C'mon, man, walk this off. It's just a bad day...ok, bad weekend...uh, well if we're being totally honest here, bad past few months. But hey, no biggee. I'm a god, I'm above all this. I'm not sweating the little stuff..I am keeping it 'real'." He emphasized that last word, saying it just the way he'd heard it pronounced on every single daytime talk show he'd ever watched. "Waitta' minute, I don't even know what 'keeping it real' means." Pondering the mystery phrase for a few seconds, he came to a single, important conclusion. "Doesn't matter, no more procrastination, I will finish this task. I will triumph. I'll show that mortal just what a god can do when he really puts his mind to it."

Reinforcing his own uniquely superior status, even in the face of near irrefutable evidence to the contrary, never failed to put a smile on his face. And with that, he plunked back down in Jaclyn's chair and rubbed his hands together with what might almost be described as relish.

\--

"I'm Henry the Eighth I am, 'enry the Eighth I am. I got married to the widow next door. She's been married seven times before, and every one was an 'enry. Henry! She wouldn't have a Willy or a Sam. No Sam! I'm her eighth old man, I'm Henry, Henry the Eighth I am."

Claire was actually impressed by Trevor's mastery of the cockney inflection, he almost gave Herman's Hermits a run for their money. Almost. Unfortunately his grasp of the song's proper key was somewhat less than perfect. When he belted out, "Second verse, same as the first!" she knew it was time to put a stop to this impassioned performance.

Silently thanking the benevolent powers that Miss Coleman's exit preceded his impromptu serenade, she quipped, "Well, Trevor, trying a new delusion on for size?" Claire grinned as he spun around somewhat guiltily, nearly flinging file folders in every conceivable direction. "I'd have thought even royalty would be a bit of a come down for you. Still, I've never treated a Henry the Eighth, might be a nice change of pace."

"Sorry, Doc, I'm not one for downward mobility." The God of Love was well on the way to recovering from Claire's sneak attack. Nothing smoothed his ruffled feathers better than a little verbal fencing with his favorite psychologist, even if she was the one who'd ruffled them in the first place. "I have to say, though, that if I were going to choose a delusion I could do a lot worse than old Henry. The guy was a chick magnet."

"I'm not sure his wives would agree with you. After all many of them were forced into marriage with him by their families. And they all ended up imprisoned or dead when a newer, flashier young wench came along."

"True, he wasn't big on the whole commitment gig, but for a guy of...shall we say 'ample size', he didn't do too badly. Teach him to bathe more than once or twice a month, get him out of those tights and into a big and tall shop, and give him a few lessons in table manners, women would've been falling at his feet."

Claire leaned on the upper level of the desk and gazed down at her greatest professional failure speculatively. "And I suppose you know this from personal experience, huh?"

"Well, it's not like we ever did lunch or anything, but we were nodding acquaintances. You know, his people talked to my people..."

"As fascinating as this new level of your psychosis may be, I'd really like to get back to the reason I came out here."

Trevor gave her a sidelong glance. "You mean aside from the opportunity to harass me?"

"That was simply a pleasantly unexpected bonus," the therapist agreed lightly. "I wanted to know how you were getting along out here. How is the filing project going?"

She watched his eyes shift guiltily to the Leaning Tower of Files, and he barely managed to suppress a shudder of revulsion. Clearly feigning overconfidence he managed, "Good...it's, ah, going good. Real good, fantabulous. In fact I don't think the phrase 'Super-cali-fragilistic Expialidotious' would be out of place in describing my work. Should be done, oh some time this millennium..."

"Why doesn't this inspire much confidence in me?" She stepped carefully around the counter to inspect the pile more closely. "Trevor, you've barely started! I realize this probably isn't high on your list of 'Fun Ways to Spend a Saturday Afternoon'...."

A rapidfire staccato burst of laughter cut Claire off. "Try dead last, tied neck in neck with a non-mandatory root canal, or an early morning enema."

"..But these files aren't going to organize themselves."

Snapping his fingers he returned, "Darn, I knew I should've brought my magic wand with me this morning."

"Please tell me that's merely your own feeble attempt at humor."

"Well it was supposed to mildly resemble a witty riposte, yeah."

"Good, because despite my earlier humorous comment about a new delusion being a nice change of pace I am theoretically supposed to be curing you, not encouraging new varieties of mental illness."

He gaped for a full two seconds, until she began to squirm under his scrutiny. "I'm really impressed, most people would need to take a breath in the midst of such an impressively wordy declaration. To be perfectly honest, though, I can think of a lot more interesting ways to put a talent like that to use..."

"Well, what do you know, you managed to go all of..." Consulting her watch briefly she finished, "Five minutes without a sexual innuendo. I'm really proud of you, Trevor, maybe there is hope for a cure after all. However, I'm definitely not interested in pursuing that particular line of thought at the moment. What I am interested in is seeing that pile of folders in order and arranged neatly in that filing cabinet pronto. C'mon, chop, chop." The psychologist clapped her hands and made a shooing motion in his general direction.

He blinked at her several times before sighing melodramatically. "You know, if I were mortal I'd be wondering what karmic retribution was being meted out on me this weekend."

"A wise man once said, 'Revenge is sweet'."

A smug grin accompanied her statement, which had precisely the same effect on Trevor that a red cape had been known to induce in a bull. "Wasn't that Ricardo Montalbon?"

"That little joke was so hilarious it almost distracted me from the fact that you're not actually accomplishing anything. Almost. Now get to work, and try to keep your musical interludes to a minimum."

"Not a big Herman's Hermits fan, huh? No problem, pick a band, any band, and I'll be happy to act as your very own personal jukebox."

"I suppose asking you to refrain altogether would be pointless?"

His expression was enough to convince her that she was perfectly correct on that particular point. "What, and waste these acoustics?" A downright impish grin accompanied that query. "Anyway, I work better with musical accompaniment...and I really suck at whistling. Though I'm willing to give it a go if you want me to..."

Claire's hands sprang up in a warding gesture and she shook her head vigorously. "No, no, that's ok. Just try not to scare off too many of my patients, all right?"

"Okie dokie. So, any requests?"

"None."

"Then you're leaving song selection up to me, huh?" There were times when Trevor thought Claire must be into verbal masochism. She just made it too easy to mess with her head. "I know, how about, 'Lydia, oh Lydia, say have you met Lydia? Lydia, the tattooed lady!'"

"No, nyet, cease and desist. Nothing in any way lewd or suggestive, got it?"

"Oooh, that's going to severely limit my choices. Still, I'm sure I'll be able to think of a few dozen appropriate ditties." He leaned forward and gazed up at her almost seriously. "Sometimes omniscience has its perks."

"Only sometimes, huh?"

"Well, it's got it's drawbacks too. I mean you mortals can only conceivably get a finite number of inane songs stuck in your head. I, on the other hand..."

"Yeah, I can see how that might be a problem. But, you know, if it wouldn't overtax that godlike gray matter of yours too much, how about getting to work?"

"Just for that I'm starting with an all Spice Girls repertoire."

Claire actually had to bite her lip to keep from giggling. It wasn't a good idea to let him know how close he often came to cracking her up completely. There was no question it would go straight to his head...after all, what didn't? "And I thought Muzak was a fate worse than death."

"Hmmph, laugh it up, but you've never heard my stirring rendition of 'Wannabe'. I would've tried out for the band after Ginger decided to pursue a solo career, but I had a late shift at Taggerdy's..." He shrugged in a 'what can you do?' manner. "It probably wouldn't have been fair to break the hearts of all those attention starved mortals."

"I'm going to regret this but, " taking a deep breath, Claire blurted out the rest, "Ok, what was your name?"

A leer settled back on his malleable features like an old friend. "'Love Spice', baby, what else?"

"Oh I don't know, how about 'Demented Spice'? Or 'Overinflated Ego Spice'?"

He paused to ponder the suggestions then shook his head decisively. "Nope, way too many syllables. Gotta' keep these monikers short and easily chantable for the mobs of teenaged, hormone-addled fans. Speaking of fans, how many more of your groupies do we have left to face today?"

"Two, which you'd know if you bothered to consult Jaclyn's appointment calendar." Trevor rolled his eyes and turned back to the pile of folders that was his very own microcosmic version of purgatory. Better to face that than yet another speech from his therapist. "Oh, and the next patient may be bringing her two little boys along so I'd like you to keep an eye on them while we're in the session, ok?"

His hand waved vaguely in her direction in the universal sign of "I'm agreeing with you completely though I haven't heard a single word you've said." Fine, if he wanted to ignore her she'd just let him be surprised. And the Batterman twins were going to be one immensely satisfying little surprise. Claire was willing to take her petty torments where she found them. "All right then, keep up the good work, and be sure to show Mrs. Batterman in as soon as she arrives."

When he heard her reenter her office he peeked up and with a grin began singing once more. "She's a very kinky girl...the kind you don't take home to mother..."

\--

There were few sounds more grating to the nerves of your average adult human than the outraged screech of a three year old child. For one thing the lung capacity of a toddler could give an Olympic swimmer a run for his Speedos. For another it invariably hit octaves usually only attained by high speed rotating saw blades impacting metal, or garden claws dragged slowly down freshly washed chalkboards. It also had the effect of making any adult within hearing range desire nothing more than to _make..it...stop_ , whatever the cost. At present that cost seemed to be a small, one-armed Chewbacca figure.

Said figure had become the center of a battle the likes of which would've put the Trojan war to shame. The Batterman twins, Jeffrey and Jason, were currently tugging on opposite ends of the sorely abused plastic Wookie and making that nerve shattering, high frequency indignant wail.

Now being the God of Love gave Trevor insights into the minds of mortals. He'd spent eons accumulating information, learning what made people tick, and effectively using that information to play cosmic matchmaker. However, he'd never actually spent any time looking into child psychology. Technically speaking kids weren't under his jurisdiction...at least not after conception. For all intents and purposes he knew about as much on the subject of children as he did about the socio-economic status of Serbia. Not that he'd ever admit this fact to Claire. The fact that his grasp of the nature of reality was actually more a "limited omniscience" than a full Jehovah-type all-knowingness was not information he wanted to let her get her hands on. His ego was already taking more of a beating than any immortal should ever have to face.

And so, he pondered the situation before him, bringing to bear centuries of experience and wisdom. Crossing his arms across his chest he tilted his head to the side and studied the diminutive hellions gravely. Problem: two children, one toy. Solution? Pursing his lips he came to an immediate and decisive conclusion. As the kids continued to tug and scream, "Mine!" Trevor reached down, grabbed the toy, and with one of his patented hundred megawatt smiles cooed, "Mine."

Life was a series of learning experiences, a chance to accumulate knowledge, to grow. Trevor was currently undergoing a growth period...or at least that was how he was choosing to perceive this particular moment. Of course to the casual, uninformed passerby it might possibly seem as if Trevor had just made a tremendous blunder. That he had, in fact, halted a rampant tug of war in favor of a no holds barred, full volume, high intensity temper tantrum.

That would, of course, be totally off base. Nothing could be further from the truth. The situation was totally under control. Really.

The dual bellow of protest issuing forth from both Batterman boys nearly sent Trevor straight up to the ceiling...not unlike a panicked cat in an old Warner Brother's cartoon. Flinching, he threw both arms over his head in a vain attempt to protect what remained of his hearing. One eye peeked open to monitor the chameleon-like color change taking place on the face of each toddler. He wondered vaguely what color would indicate a need to call 911. Hopefully not splotchy red...or purple.

Had he still be in possession of his powers both boys would currently be experiencing life as a potted begonia. A nice, quiet begonia. Alas, at the moment he had only his superior size and wits with which to deal with the situation. A pity, he was quite convinced they'd make much nicer house plants than offspring.

So, how to lower the decibel level without resorting to gagging the little tykes? It was in that moment that the solution hit him like a bolt from above. Raising his eyes to the heavens he issued a silent, "Thanks, guys!" and headed for his desk. While the Battermans howled a few feet away, he tossed Chewie into one of the ornamental palms near the window and tugged a drawer open. Grabbing what was left of the candy Jaclyn had left for him, he dashed back to the hellions and presented each with a piece.

Silence, beautiful silence, descended at once over the hall. Both Jeffrey and Jason had, in the span of half a second, forgotten all about the existence of the contested toy in favor of the ultimate pacifier, chocolate. Trevor sighed at the loss of his beloved candies, but couldn't help thinking it was a small price to pay to avoid spending the rest of his mortal existence with tinnitis.

As the kids decimated what remained of his sweets stash, Trevor noticed a well groomed young man striding purposefully towards the desk. They exchanged a friendly smile, and the other man gave the kids a wary look. Apparently he wasn't altogether taken with the little squirts. Trevor liked him already.

"Ah, hi, my name's Kevin Charles, I have an appointment with Dr. Allen at three. I know I'm a little early, but I was in this part of town and..."

Trevor nodded and gestured Kevin towards a chair opposite the twins. "No problem, Kevin, just take a seat. Claire's with a patient now but I'm seriously hoping she'll cut this session short...you know, for the kids' sake."

Kevin gave him a knowing smile. "Thanks."

"Hey, can I get you something to drink? I'd offer you a piece of candy, but I think they'd take my hand off if I tried to take the bag away from them now."

The other man laughed and replied, "Coffee'd be nice if you have some."

Trevor did a spin and located a coffee cart with a minimum of effort. Stepping over to it he asked, "What's your poison? Looks like I've got...um...well basically the entire International Foods line of products. Jeez, doesn't Claire believe in good old fashioned, Juan Valdez approved Colombian?" He inspected several canisters critically, giving each a shake and an exploratory sniff. "Hmm, looks like the Viennese Chocolate is clumping rather badly, so I wouldn't recommend it. But the French Vanilla looks ok."

"Sounds fine, thanks."

"French Vanilla it is." He started up the coffee maker to heat up the water and put several heaping spoonsful of the instant coffee in a mug. "You know this coffee always reminds me of that little cafe in Paris...That handsome waiter..."

"Jean-Luc!" they chorused and exchanged a broad grin.

"I watch way too much television." Kevin admitted, a bit embarrassed.

"Nothing wrong with watching, man. I mean sure you're not going to find intellectually stimulating, high quality fare on your average network, but compared to some forms of entertainment I've been privy to...On the other hand there are definitely more interesting ways to spend an evening, if you know what I mean." Trevor looked a bit concerned. "You do know what I mean, right? I mean you are here on a Saturday afternoon..."

"Oh, yeah, well see I just needed some advice. And, well I really trust Dr. Allen..."

"Advice, huh?" It registered on some level of his psyche that he'd solemnly promised to refrain from "meddling" today, but he couldn't possibly be expected to keep such a ridiculous promise, could he? After all, meddling in the affairs of other wasn't just what he did, it was who he was. It was his nature, his raison d'etre. Surely she'd understand that. Of course she would. Rationalization firmly in place, Trevor leaned forward and handed Kevin his coffee. "Tell me, Kevin, just what could bring you to Claire's office on this beautiful weekend, hmm? Problems with your honey? C'mon, tell Uncle Trevor all about it."

"Uh, I don't know..."

Putting a companionable arm around his new pal's shoulders, the God of Love murmured, "Listen, I'm just doing this receptionist gig for the day. I'm usually a bartender, and as you know when you've got a problem in the love department there is nobody better qualified to listen and give you valuable and useful advice than your friendly neighborhood booze seller. Hey, television and movies can't all be wrong, can they?" He sat down beside Kevin, if he'd been a dog his ears would've been perked forward.

"Well, I guess it couldn't hurt to get another opinion."

Trevor shook his head enthusiastically.

Taking a deep breath, Kevin began, "Ok, there's this...person I'm really interested in. They're really attractive, and intelligent and witty..and we have a lot in common."

"You're both single, yes?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah we're both single. I just...well, we're friends, and I'm afraid that if I were to tell them that I wanted something more that I'd lose that friendship."

"Mmm-hmm, basically you're interested in instigating a little vertical communication with this person but you're afraid they're gonna' hit you with the dreaded 'Let's just be friends' routine, right?"

Kevin shuddered. "Oh yeah. I mean I think I've reached my quota for that particular phrase for this lifetime."

"Yeah, it's a classic all right. Right up there with, 'It's not you, it's me.' If I had a dime for every time I've heard one of them I'd be clinking wine glasses with Bill Gates right now. But enough about me, let me ask you something, what does Claire think you ought to do?"

"Well, she says if I'm having this many doubts about a possible relationship that there's probably a very good reason for it. Like my unconscious trying to subtly tell me that this just isn't going to work, you know?"

"Kev, I'm going to let you in on a little lesson I've learned over the past few months. Generally speaking I've found that whenever Claire tells someone they shouldn't pursue somebody nine times out of ten they absolutely, positively should." The other man looked a bit startled, so Trevor continued his thought. "Look, Claire comes from the 'Better Safe Than Sorry' school of thought. Nothing wrong with that, but life isn't about playing it safe, it's about risks. Playing it safe isn't living, it's existing. Making mistakes, taking outrageous chances, screwing up magnificently that is living. Take a second and imagine yourself someday in the distant future. You're an old man and you're looking back on your life. Would you rather be able to say you gave this relationship a try, or that you chickened out and let what might've been the best thing ever to happen in your life pass you by? Isn't it better to regret something you did than something you were too afraid to do?"

Kevin pondered that for a minute seriously. "That's...that's actually a really good point. I'd never thought about that. I guess I would rather try and fail than never try at all."

"That's the spirit!"

"I...I don't know how to thank you."

"Go ask that guy out and be happy, believe me, it's the best possible thanks you could give me."

Kevin stood and turned to leave. Suddenly a thought occurred to him and he swiveled back around. "Hey, wait a minute, how did you know I was gay? I didn't mention..."

Trevor shrugged innocently. "Well I am a..." He stopped short and decided to play by at least one of Claire's rules today. "...bartender."

"Oh yeah. Um, could you tell Dr. Allen that I won't be in today after all? There's someone I need to go talk to."

"Consider your name penciled out...and good luck!"


	6. Chapter 6

He watched Kevin leave, then shut his eyes and conjured up the vision of one more bead sliding seamlessly across his counter. Maybe this weekend wasn't going to be a total wash after all. As he turned to head back to his desk, Trevor noted that the Batterman boys were currently in the process of building a tower out of the files he'd spent the past hour carefully organizing. Biting back a scream with some little effort, Trevor practically leapt around the desk and began snatching the folders away from them. "No, no, no! I thought I told you monkeys not to touch anything! Got it? No touch-o, comprende? Aw, man, now they're all sticky! Forget gagging you two, I'm getting leashes." The irked god did his best to wipe the files on the carpeting and continued to grumble to himself while the boys gazed at him guilelessly.

"Oh boys?" a voice from the other side of the desk called out.

The destructive duo snapped to and fled to their mother's side with a chorus of giggles. Trevor was convinced the laughter was at his expense as he continued to repair the damage to the files. "Just you two wait 'til I get my bow and arrows back, you're going to be escorting a couple of genetic mutants to your senior ball. Then we'll see who has the last laugh!" he growled under his breath.

"Hey, Trevor, you down there?"

He winced, cursed silently in ancient Phoenician, then replied, "Yeah."

"What exactly are you doing down on the floor?"

"Aerobics. I had the sudden impulse to elevate my heart rate. Not my preferred method of doing so, but I didn't think there was much chance that Cindy Crawford would be ambling into the office today, so..."

"You know, one of these days you're going to give me a direct answer to a question and I swear I'm going to suffer a fatal heart attack and collapse on the spot."

"You'll have to forgive me, but I'm having a hard time seeing the down side here..."

"Oh I think I'm pretty safe, after all I can't even get you to be direct about your past so..."

"Au contraire," he returned, straightening so he could meet her eyes. "I've told you everything about my past you simply choose not to believe I am who I say I am."

"Trevor, I may not know who you used to be, but I can say with complete certainty that you are not the ancient Roman personification of love."

"Greco-Roman."

Taking a deep breath she crossed her arms over her chest in an effort to keep from throttling him. "Fine, Greco-Roman personification of Love. Though why I even bother to argue with you about this is beyond me. I mean I don't know who's more deluded, you for believing you're Cupid or me for thinking I can ever hope to cure you."

"Does that mean we have a shot at being bunkies in the same rubber room someday?"

"I'm beginning to wonder." she returned dryly. "In the meantime I'll be in my office, just let me know when Mr. Charles arrives for his three o'clock, ok?"

"Oh, uh..."

The look on her patient's face was enough to set off several dozen alarm bells in Claire's mind. "Trevor..."

Honesty was, of course, completely out of the question. Unfortunately thanks to the demon spawn he hadn't had enough time to devote to coming up with a believable cover story. Time to improvise. "He um, just called actually. Yeah, said something came up and he had to cancel today." So far so good.

"'Something came up'? Did he happen to say what it was?"

Uh-oh. "He, uh, mentioned something about a...a wedding. Yeah, I definitely remember him mentioning a wedding." Nice save.

"A wedding? But he just made that appointment yesterday, wouldn't he have known that he had a wedding to go to?"

So close... "Um, well, it was probably one of those romantic spur of the minute things. You know, hopping a plane for Vegas to be joined in wedded bliss by an Elvis impersonator in a drive through chapel. That kind of thing. I just hope they choose one with the 'young' Elvis. The sweaty, pill-popping, pre-overdose version just doesn't say 'romance' to me. It'd be kinda like getting married by Dom DeLuise." He thought the nonchalance he'd summoned up was a particularly effective touch.

"Hmm, well in that case I guess I'll spend the rest of the afternoon working on one of my articles. Why don't you page me when you get those files organized, ok?"

"Will do," he returned, saluting her with one of the folders. He waited until she returned to her office to collapse back onto the carpet with relief.

\--

A soft buzz caught Claire's attention and she turned from the laptop to answer the phone. "Dr. Allen."

"What are you wearing?"

"Trevor, I thought we'd discussed the details of modern office politics earlier."

He chuckled merrily. "Yeah, I've seen the commercials. 'This is sexual harassment and I don't have to take it anymore.' But I was under the impression that it was usually the employee rather than the employer that ended up being the harass-ee."

"In your case I'm sure the courts would make an exception." She reached over to click "save" before she got into a long, drawn out conversation with her patient. The last she needed right now was to lose the last two hours worth of work while engaging in a verbal sparring match with Trevor. "I'm assuming you called to tell me you've finished?"

"Yes, I have completed my mistress' task."

"The files are all organized?" He grunted in response. "Well, I hope it wasn't too horrible for you."

"Oh believe me it was, my mistress is harsh and cruel."

"Really? Mistreats you, huh?"

"Tosses me to her hyperactive patients and their hellspawn offspring, gives me mind numbingly boring assignments...and beats me."

"Beats you?"

"Well a guy can hope." Claire could easily imagine his smirk. "I'm thinking of going over the wall. I figure I've got at least a five minute head start before she releases the hounds."

The therapist laughed. "But where would you go?"

"Can't say. Very hush, hush. You understand."

"I see." Claire schooled her features back into her habitual, slightly disapproving frown. Obviously he couldn't see her at the moment, but it wouldn't do to get lazy. "Before you make your escape I should point out that the lady on the other end of your leash is also the last thing between you and an extended stay in an institution."

"Sure you don't want to jab that knife in just a little bit deeper, Claire, before you start twisting it?" His voice was a pale shadow of its former good humored chirp. Claire had noticed that despite his usual, almost perpetual enthusiasm, certain words and phrases could shut him down emotionally faster than a malfunctioning nuclear reactor. Right now she could imagine the slight tightening around his eyes and pursed lips that heralded a dip in his mood barometer. Oddly it was almost a relief to be speaking over a phone line. Though she'd rather have bamboo shoots shoved under her fingernails than admit it, that look never failed to make her squirm. It was almost akin to kicking a puppy. Not that she ever had, of course, but that's what she imagined it would feel like.

As per usual when she started feeling guilty about something she'd said or done in regards to Trevor, the psychologist fell back into a casually annoyed attitude. "Don't be so melodramatic. Aren't you the one who's always telling me you can jump through any hoops a review board could throw at you? Or has your exaggerated self opinion joined the rest of us mere mortals down here on planet Earth?"

"Sorry, Claire, but as a god I'm exempt from the title 'mortal'. And quite frankly, even if I weren't a deity 'mere' would be the last adjective anyone would associate with me."

"Glad to hear there was no irreparable harm done to your ego. It's sort of become a constant in my life. Like the sun rising in the east."

"The day I lose sight of my innate superiority is the same day you can start looking for signs of the Apocalypse in whatever belief system you subscribe to. Though I should point out that the Cupidian religion has no such existence ending scenario. Just one of the many benefits of conversion. And since I can't seem to get anywhere with Courtney Love, that high priestess position is still open..."

"As tempting as that sounds I think I'll keep my day job, thanks." Fingering her Pilot pen, she smile wryly. Like a weeble, Trevor might wobble, but he never fell down. Ego once more intact, she felt confidant that a bit of a jab on her part would do no long lasting harm. "Tell me, Trevor, do you ever have trouble finding hats large enough to fit that head of yours?"

"It's a constant struggle, but I'm attempting to bravely face life with my disability. And let me tell you that those 'one size fits all' things are total hooey. Of course for me that also applies to certain undergarments..."

"Woah, we've just crossed the border into 'Too Much Information Land'." It was definitely time to steer the conversation back to safer, less..intimate topics. "I'll, um, be right out to check on your work." With that she clicked the receiver back onto the hook and stood, smoothing the wrinkles on her suit with practiced ease. When she opened the door to the office she found Trevor twirling round and around on Jaclyn's chair.

"Hey, who needs high priced pharmaceuticals when you've got a chair that spins, huh? Same effects, no cost, and perfectly legal. Maybe I'll add chair spinning to the Cupidian commandments, make it a permanent part of the rituals. Catholics have communion, Cupidians have spinning!" Both feet landed firmly on the floor and he giggled watching the room continue to dance around him.

Claire bent to look him right in the eyes. "Please tell me you're not really familiar with the effects of a variety of drugs...Although it might explain a few things..."

"No."

"No you're not?"

"Yes."

"Yes you are or yes you aren't? Oh, no, wait we've done this before. Forget I asked, ok?"

"Done. Say, you wanna' take a look at the files? I think you're going to be really pleased. I thought to myself, hey anybody can arrange files by the alphabet, that takes no imagination, right?"

"Trevor, what have you done?" Her stomach was currently attempting to drop down through the floor.

"Well I started reading through each one and I just kinda paired 'em up in the most likely couplings."

"You what?"

"There were a couple I was a little stumped on, so I moved them to the back of the drawers...and you had an odd number of patients so I had to make one threesome, but I'm convinced a menage could work for these guys..."

"Trevor! I can't believe you just spent the entire afternoon...I...it...!"

"Hey, no need to thank me, just doin' my job." He let her gape at him, completely unable to put together a cohesive phrase, for several seconds. There was just something downright appealing about Claire's features when she was in a state of near panic. That professional mask that habitually settled over her face was replaced by an almost childlike indignation. Still, there was a fine line between this stage and a full blown screaming hissy fit. The latter didn't really appeal to him much at all, so he decided enough was enough. "I'm just kidding, Claire, see?" Pulling open the drawer he let her see that the files were indeed in alphabetical order, all neatly lined up, tabs facing forward and patients' names clearly visible. "Jeez, can't you take a joke?"

She took a few seconds to regain her composure, and her breath, before attempting an answer. "Very...funny...Trevor." Suddenly any guilt she'd managed to accumulate over her plans for the evening evaporated. The man was about to be introduced to Claire's sense of humor...the hard way.

"So, I guess that's it for today, huh? Am I free to go now, Ma'am?" The smile that stretched her crimson lips made Trevor flinch. He was guessing that was a big 'No'.

"I don't think so, Trevor, you and I are going to go grab a bite to eat. I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

He gulped visibly. "And then?"

"You'll see."


	7. Chapter 7

The clang and jangle of a small bronze bell against glass announced a patron's departure from the Dee-Lite Deli. Claire was perched against a lamppost, having long since finished her own tuna sandwich and Diet Coke. Her companion, however, had proven to be just about the pokiest eater she'd ever met. That might possibly have been due to the fact that he was well aware that something gruesome lay in store for him this evening.

After finally finishing his meal he'd insisted on grabbing a few things "for the road" and had proceeded to spend a literal eternity carefully deliberating over the contents of the cooler near the front counter. Exasperated, Claire had finally conceded defeat and gone outside for a breath of fresh air while she waited for him to come to some kind of decision.

As it turned out this had given the psychologist a rare chance to really enjoy the beauty of the late Saturday afternoon. Oddly the weather was being rather forgiving for a November in Chicago. The wind, usually a roaring, clawing, omnipresent enemy, was barely emitting a weak bleat and the setting sun was turning the surrounding buildings a pale orange/gold. You couldn't ask for a more pleasant weekend...and she'd spent most of it listening to people whine about their social lives and babysitting her most trying patient.

She was sure there was some kind of humor to be gleaned from the ironic bent her once carefree life had taken. Not that she was feeling all that much like laughing at the moment. Her boyfriend was currently several hundred miles away, her career was in a holding pattern, and every success she managed to wrest from the individuals coming to her for help was balanced against her fruitless attempt to cure Trevor of his delusion. She'd been working with him for months now and would have to honestly admit that she was no nearer a cure than when she'd started. Hell, to be honest, she hadn't even managed to crack the facade of his carefully constructed persona. "Frustration," she muttered dismally, "thy name is Trevor Hale."

His ears must have been burning fiercely, because he chose that particular moment to come buzzing out of the delicatessen. Though he'd been nearly silent throughout the course of their meal, in itself a rarity, he had apparently returned to full expository mode somewhere between a brief trip to the restroom and joining her on the street. "I was thinking of starting my own boy group," he began airily. "You know, like the Backstreet Boys, or N'SYNC, or Hanson...wait, they are boys, right? With that little one it's hard to tell."

Before Claire could respond he barreled on like a runaway locomotive. "The boys inspire impressionable young girls to jump on any male with a non-threatening haircut and bamm-o, I've got my hundred couples before you can say 'statutory rape'! I'd have to think of a name...mmm...how about 'N'Love'? It's cute, it's catchy, it'll send hormonally charged, post-pubescent girls into screaming hysterics. But I've learned from the mistakes of others, those kids grow up so fast that they stop appealing to the target audience practically within days of attaining stardom. So I'm starting 'em young. Heck, I wouldn't care if they were potty trained as long as they could hold an instrument and sing 'Oooh, oooh, oooh, baby.'" His wild, breakneck ramble slowed to a halt when he caught sight of Claire's expression. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Oh I'm just trying to figure out which medication would be most beneficial..."

"Un-uh, no psychotropics for me, I'm a clean teen!"

"Trevor, I hate to be the one to break this to you, but you're so far from the teen years that the light from adolescence can't reach you."

"You calling me old?" Annoyance gave way almost immediately to grudging acceptance. "Well, maybe in mortal terms, but I can assure to that to my peers I'm but a young sprite barely blushing with manhood. Heck, Demeter still pinches my cheeks whenever she sees me. Good thing me and Persephone never hit it off, though, there's no telling what she'd be pinching then." He sighed with just a tinge of longing. "A few more months down here and I'll be paying somebody to pinch me."

"I thought fraternizing with the livestock was strictly 'verboten'?"

"Believe me, that fact is never far from my mind. Though Helen came close to inspiring a bout of blissful temporary amnesia." Trevor's entire demeanor took on a wistful air. "I almost chucked in omnipotence and immortality for a chance at some horizontal mamboing....last time I let a bottle of vino do my thinking for me." He shook off the memory and melancholy in much the same way a dog rid itself of water. "And speaking of potentially mind-altering beverages, check out what I got!" He pulled out of his brown paper bag a slim cylinder. It appeared to have an aerosol nozzle at the top but Claire couldn't quite make out what it was. That is, until Trevor thrust it into her face with an exclamation of, "Extreme iced tea!"

She blinked and took a half step back to re-establish her personal space bubble. "What?"

Turning it back around so he could study the canister, Trevor returned, "It's iced tea, in spray form! I figure it's for all those skateboarding, mountain bike riding, testosterone-poisoned youths for whom normal beverages are simply passe. Good thing this stuff isn't carbonated, a couple of shakes and it'd probably take your head clean off."

Claire marveled silently at how little was required to entertain her patient. Truth be told, he usually managed to amuse himself in even the most tedious of circumstances. At the moment his current infatuation had her deeply puzzled. "It's just a marketing gimmick to attract impressionable young people. To coerce them into purchasing an overpriced and undoubtedly useless product."

"Worked like a charm," he agreed amiably.

"Actually it's worse than useless, you can't even take it back for a deposit. And I'll bet it's not even recyclable. It'll undoubtedly be cluttering up the planet long after man has been replaced by the cockroach as dominant species."

One eyebrow arched in an eloquent gesture of intrigue. "Hmmm, I'll have to check back on that. Of course if your scenario is correct I should have a lot of time on my hands. Don't imagine that insects are going to be needing my particular services." The sound of Claire's leather pumps striding quickly away from him brought his contemplation of that bleak future to an end. Why ponder love among the cockroaches when there was the possibility of an even more grim evening ahead?

Three long paces brought Trevor once more to the annoyed psychologist's side. They walked together for several moments in a companionable silence. Claire let her eyes slide over to surreptitiously glance at Trevor. He was busily studying the press of humanity filling the sidewalk around them in the way a scientist might peer at some new organism. No, that wasn't quite true. Yes, he did study each and every passerby on the street intensely, but it wasn't an indifferent or clinical gaze. Far from it, he seemed to see so much potential in each one. He didn't seem to be able to bring himself to pass a stranger without giving them a thorough, and penetrating examination. It was as if he were looking for some special, invisible cue...a little switch to be flipped that would indicate a possibility for him to work his particular brand of "magic".

As one embarrassingly attractive young man passed them by, Trevor turned to watch him make his way down the street with nearly palpable interest. He pulled a notebook from an inside coat pocket and quickly scribbled a note. Apparently satisfied, he glanced up and muttered, "So, I've obediently followed your every command all day, been a good little boy..." When she continued to walk on without comment, he sped up and circled her like a personal satellite. "That means I can go, right?"

He didn't like the smile on her face at all. It was way too self satisfied, and when Claire got smug it made him deeply nervous. Athena had a smile like that, and no good had ever come of it. At least not when it was aimed at him. "Oh no, Trevor, the day is still young, and you're mine until I say otherwise."

He gave her as insincere a grin as he could muster on short notice. "It's deeply gratifying to hear that for once you actually desire my company, but it's Saturday night! C'mon, have a heart, it's 'Toga Night' on Cinemax! Full of gross historical inaccuracies, I'll admit, but lots of skimpy costumes, peroxide and bronzer, so who cares?"

"Are you actually advocating staying in on a Saturday night? Trevor, I'm shocked."

"As a matter of fact I am, but for one reason and one reason alone...my eight a.m. appointment tomorrow." The disgust practically dripped like acid from his words.

"Well, you know what they say, 'Early to bed, early to rise makes a mean healthy, wealthy and wise.'"

"Yeah well all it does for gods is make us exceedingly testy." Trevor returned tartly. Rubbing his eyes with weary resignation he attempted to prepare himself for the worst. "Ok, so you've got some devious scheme in mind for your next round of 'Let's Torment Trevor', huh? Go ahead, lay it on me. Let me bask in the glow of your superior intellect."

"I've got a better idea, why don't I show you?" Claire stopped directly in front of a frighteningly familiar doorway.

Trevor looked from her to the glass entryway and back. "Lemme guess, you want to buy me a cup of coffee?"

Claire had to hand it to him, Trevor certainly was the most optimistic individual she'd ever known. Taking him by the arms she led him inside the building and over to the elevator. "Sorry, Trevor, I think your omniscience is slipping. Care to try again?"

She had to give him a bit of a tug to actually propel him onto the elevator itself. Still trying to salvage some of his habitual enthusiasm, Trevor offered, "Um, you've always wanted to act out Aerosmith's 'Love in an Elevator'? I'm really flattered, but I feel the need to remind you that I'm currently on an enforced chastity regimen."

"Getting colder."

The doors slid open and Trevor's shoulders drooped. Sure enough, it was 'Cuppa Java', and inside the usual Tuesday night crew. "But it's a Saturday!"

"I realize that, which is why I set up this special session." She leaned in and patted his shoulder in a gesture of completely affected commiseration. "Just for you."

"I cannot thank you enough." His tone alone could've frozen Lake Michigan to a depth of four feet.

"Oh, and Trevor, there's just one little thing." The defeated Love God actually winced. "At tonight's session you're going to remain absolutely, utterly and completely _silent_. We're about to find out if it's possible for you to keep your mouth shut for an entire hour without spontaneously combusting. Let's look at it as a scientific experiment, shall we?" With that she gave him a less than gentle shove into the coffee shop.


	8. Chapter 8

"...of course I said I'd do it, I mean it was for a good cause, and Claire had that look on her face. You know the one, 'do it or I'll be very disappointed in you'. I'm a sucker for it every time." Laurence, the rather diminutive and darkest skinned member of a trio that had been affectionately dubbed the 'Three Stooges', finished with a grin.

His taller, ball cap wearing companion Mike muttered, "Yeah, but you said you'd do it, I mean isn't that kinda..."

"Weasely?" Tina, the sharp-tongued brunette who lived to harass Laurence, put in.

He ignored her barb and spoke directly to his friend. "Right, I didn't see you up on that stage..."

"Yeah," Mike returned with a smirk. "But I had an excuse prepared ahead of time so I wouldn't be forced to weenie out at the last minute. That's called 'planning'."

"It's called 'weaseling' in my dictionary." Tina's slightly nasal voice had caught the attention of several other members of the singles group. They all turned to watch the two men squirm, it gave them something to do while they waited for Dr. Allen to arrive.

"A weasel," Laurence announced authoritatively, "is a small furry animal, not a verb."

"Well, the 'small' part is dead on the money."

Mike wisely stepped between the two before things could escalate further, but that didn't keep Tina from continuing, "At least Nick had the guts to go through with it."

"He probably just couldn't think up a good enough excuse to duck out. Nick's a great guy, but creative...?" Laurence shook his head slowly. "Now me, I've got better way to spend a Friday night than to humiliate myself in public..."

"What, '1-900 HOT THANG' having a special deal last night?" Trevor's caustic words sent a titter through the assembled singles. "I'm sure Bambi and the girls appreciated the business, but I wasn't too thrilled to be tapped to take your place." Leaning in, the annoyed bartender actually managed to assume an air of menace. "You know the ancient Greeks had an extra nasty level of the afterlife set aside for people who broke their promises."

"Good thing I'm a Baptist." Laurence replied, nonplussed.

"Ah, Trevor," Claire inserted herself smoothly into the conversation, much to his annoyance. "Aren't you forgetting something?" She mimed zipping up her own lips and waited for him to do the same, though he added an invisible key twist and toss for good measure. As she turned to assume her usual seat, Trevor gave Laurence a look that promised him this particular conversation was far from over.

The psychologist settled into her carefully placed chair and watched with barely contained glee as Trevor slumped onto a stool at the coffee bar. She'd noted that while the other regulars in her group claimed a single seat and guarded it like a lion defending its territory week after week, Trevor tended to drift from one seat to another. Just when she thought he'd settled on one or another he'd be up and roaming restlessly again. There was something of a pattern to his choices, if he didn't spot anyone particularly promising on a given week he'd hover near the coffee bar. The elevation put him in a good position to carefully observe both the group and herself. He'd then wait for just the right moment to cause the maximum disruption and launch into a strolling soliloquy down the length of the coffee house.

But not tonight. Tonight was going to be different, she, Dr. Claire Allen was taking back her singles group. No interference, no butting in, in a word, no Trevor. For the first time in months she almost felt like she was in control once more. At least...that was the plan.

She kept a close eye on Trevor, who'd turned to face the young woman on duty. It was her sincere hope that he was merely ordering a double mocha, but she had her suspicions that he might be enacting some sort of subtle rebellion out of earshot. All right, maybe she was being just a tad unfair. After all he'd been a model patient for the vast majority of the day. He'd acted almost, well, normal. Or as close to it as he was capable of.

As Claire continued to watch him speculatively, Trevor leaned on the bar a forlorn shadow of his usual enthusiastic self. Chucking his black wool jacket on a stool beside him, he plunked the brown bag he'd brought along from the deli on top of it. He gave the young woman currently engaged in putting the finishing touches on a cappuccino his customary flirtatious wink. While his heart might not have been in it, particularly since he couldn't make good on any implied propositions at the moment, it wouldn't do to let any of his skills start to atrophy. And flirting, like any other skill, required constant practice to maintain peak proficiency. It wouldn't do for the God of Love to let his "come hither" glance get rusty. Actually, it was more of a "come hither, thither, wherever" look, and just one element of his never fail seduction arsenal.

Of course under normal circumstances, as a god, the most that was required of him was to appear in all of his divine glory and make eye contact with his chosen one. At times like these it was a comfort to remember that he'd never have to face the bleak dating scene of the 90's. Not much of a consolation, admittedly, but better than nothing.

Heck, the last actual date he'd had to work at was just before being exiled to this mortal coil. It had taken three months of honest to goodness effort to woo Erato. The muse had become increasingly standoffish over the past millennium...not to mention fickle. Two weeks of mind blowing ecstasy later he awoke to find a "Dear Cupid" note tacked to the headboard. Last he heard she was touring with Lillith Fair. Ah well, that's what you get for shacking up with the muse of erotic verse.

Well that little walk down memory lane was anything but encouraging. Might just as well flush what remained of his good mood right down the toilet and be done with it. On that note he turned slightly to glance at the assembled dating scene veterans. Several were new faces, usually an uplifting sign, tonight it seemed that the Fates were mocking him. These little fishies were swimming happily around their barrel, and here he sat without so much as a hook. He felt almost...impotent. The very thought was enough to make his skin crawl, and he spent the next few minutes attempting to shake off the accompanying despair the thought had inspired.

The regulars were already assuming their usual seats when Claire began, "Ok, people, why don't we get started?" She was obviously already in full lecture mode, a sure sign that tonight's group meeting would pass about as swiftly and painlessly as the Hundred Years War. "I'd like to thank everyone for coming tonight, I know it's a Saturday and there are probably a few other places you'd rather be..."

A startling bark of laughter whip cracked through the room and caused Claire's eyes to narrow. She zeroed in on Trevor back at the bar, who was futilely attempting to muffle his outburst. Spreading his hands wide in a silent gesture of contrition, he managed to deflect the majority of the psychologist's ire. Clearing her throat she began again, "As I was saying, thank you for coming tonight. Um, I thought that because this is an extra session we might start with everyone sharing some of their experiences over the past week. You know, any feelings you might be having that you'd like to get out in the open, any events that you think I might be able to help you interpret. Sort of the psychological equivalent of spring cleaning if you will...even if it is technically the middle of the winter."

That comment elicited a chuckle from several of the singles and a scowl from Trevor. Normally he'd have pointed out in no uncertain terms, voice ringing with indignity, that winter wouldn't officially begin until the solstice on December 21st. Nothing would've pleased him more than to educate these poor uninformed heathens, unfortunately tonight he was under a gag order, and was therefore forced to fume in silence. Not that this was the first time he'd ever been gagged...but he was quickly discovering that being so in the metaphorical rather than literal sense left much to be desired.

Heaving a heartfelt sigh both for bygone days and his current predicament, he leaned his head on his hand and settled in for a long night. Within seconds his eyelids started to droop. As per usual the group was engaging in its mandatory round of "Oh woe is me". A virtual litany of sad sack romantic failures delivered in a droning monotone. Sometimes he had to wonder if they were more interested in whining about their problems than they were in doing something constructive about them.

Claire, on the other hand, seemed to thrive on the bitching. She'd nod sympathetically and coo, "I hear what you're saying. Now what actions do you think might have changed that outcome?" Claire Allen: Oracle of Cliche Advice, a veritable font of psychobabble. He couldn't help but think she and the Pythia would've gotten along famously.

Trevor rubbed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and watched the fireworks show behind his eyelids. He imagined each colorful burst heralded a few dozen neurons imploding out of sheer boredom. He gave up when a headache began to settle right in the center of his forehead. The last thing he needed at the moment was a migraine. Not that he'd ever had one, of course, but they sounded mighty unpleasant. And truth be told, he'd had more than enough unpleasant experiences during his stay amongst the little people.

Dark eyes once more roving the room for something, anything that might prove even slightly entertaining, he noted with disgust that he'd managed to kill precisely two minutes. It was at that moment that he noticed what might just save his remaining sanity. A wicked smile tugged the corner of his lips further and further apart as a plan germinated.

As Claire began to respond to a comment from Shari, who'd been rhapsodizing on the rather pathetically slim pickings on the singles scene, she happened to glance up and catch sight of Trevor. Squinting, she noticed he was currently holding up two napkins with the words, "Less talkin' more rockin'!" scrawled hastily across them. Once again he'd managed to boil the complexities of dating in the 90's down into his own simplistic, and utterly sexist solution, while at the same time circumventing her explicit instructions. Rolling her eyes ceiling-ward, she made a mental note to keep her eyes front and center for the remainder of the evening.

Trevor muttered disgustedly under his breath while turning back to the bar. Well obviously Claire wasn't willing to cut him any slack tonight, so it was up to him to come up with his own entertainment. Thankfully he'd planned ahead. Ordering a lemonade, he pulled out a mini box of raisins and dropped them one by one into the yellow liquid.

The server watched the process in a sort of fascinated horror. Within seconds the method to his madness became apparent as the raisins started to bob and dance about the glass like a demented lava lamp. As he'd noted earlier in the day, omniscience had its perks. He lowered his head to the bar and followed their movements with fascination. Sad that a handful of raisins and a glass of lemonade held more entertainment value than a room full of living breathing humans.

Lifting the glass he held it up to the light and continued to observe the dancing raisins. Gazing through the shimmering, jonquil-hued beverage he discovered that the world looked entirely different as seen through a lemonade-tinted glass. It struck him that it might make a pretty good title for a song..."Lemonade Haze". Sure, it didn't have quite the cool factor of Jimi's tune, but he'd suggest it to the boys once he started N'Love. He was utterly convinced that they'd be able to take it to number one.

Whether it was the hypnotic movements of the dried fruit, or the lulling drone of singles bemoaning their outcast state, within moments Trevor was quietly snoring.


	9. Chapter 9

"...foreplay." The word snapped Trevor out of his self-induced hyponotic state and back to full awareness before the last syllable left Tina's lips. His response was darn near Pavlovian in intensity. He mused that Claire would probably love that analogy. Turning once more to face the assembled singles he realized he'd manage to zone out for the entire "Whine, Bitch and Moan" portion of the evening and now they were finally getting to the juicy stuff.

Tina continued in a rather aggravated tone, "I mean I know guys are different when it comes to that kind of thing but c'mon, they gotta' know a woman needs more than a, 'Hey babe, let's get it on!' to get warmed up." She paused to exchange looks with the other women in the room, who were all nodding enthusiastically.

"What," Mike began, apparently appointing himself nominal spokesman for all the assembled males. "Do you expect us to bring you home a dozen roses and a bottle of Chianti every time we've got an itch to scratch? That's just not realistic."

Shari, who'd been just waiting for an opening cut in, "I don't think that's what Tina's talking about. I mean personally I don't need all the romance, but there are certain...um...'things'...um..." She looked at Claire helplessly.

The psychologist cleared her throat and straightened the spectacles that were currently perched on the tip of her nose. "Ah, I think what Shari's trying to say is that womens' sexual response is quite different from that of men. Often we require a good deal of touching and intimacy before we're ready for sexual intercourse."

Trevor couldn't help grinning, leave it to Claire to make the process sound like a high school chemistry project. He started to his make his rather caustic observation public, but caught himself at the last second. What started as a proclamation ended up a strangled choking sound and at last the full horror of his situation hit him. She was good, he had to give her that. This was, without question the worst possible torture she could've inflicted on him. He felt like Sampson after his buzz cut.

"Nine times outta' ten," Tina continued, utterly oblivious to Trevor's predicament, "I'm lying there afterwards just wishing he would hurry up and go...and praying my D-cell batteries are fully charged."

The response to that particular pronouncement was definitely divided along gender lines. The females tittered or blushed, the men just looked openly boggled. Claire was attempting to maintain at least a semblance of professionalism, and failing miserably. "Well that is certainly an experience I think most of us can identify with, but..."

"Well I can't identify with it." Laurence growled petulantly. "What I want to know is how come you never tell us what you want, or how you want it, I mean are we expected to be psychic or something? If you don't like something speak up."

"Oh like you'd listen." Tina was clearly on a roll and not about to cut her adversary any slack. "Men are selfish..."

"What?" Laurence stiffened and leaned forward.

"..insensitive..."

"Ah, Tina.." Claire began.

"..pigs. They're only in bed to make sure they get just what they need, and once they do it's 'Adios muchacha'."

Claire tried again, "I think you might be being just a little hard on..."

Trevor ached to cut in right here with a well timed pun at Claire's expense, the words were right on the tip of his tongue, phrasing considered, tone thoroughly planned. He could actually feel a physical sense of loss when the moment passed and his verbal barb remained unuttered. Forget the sexual kind, verbal frustration was by far the worse.

"...men. I mean over generalization is always a mistake. Certainly there are men who fall into the category of 'insensitive', but I'd be willing to argue that some women qualify for the title too."

It was the missed opportunities that were killing him. The certainty that he could easily be one upping Claire at this very moment, skewering her with his rapier wit. He could almost hear the singles chuckling as the psychologist squirmed after a particularly well-placed, innuendo-laden metaphor. Oh to bask in the warm glow of their approval, to prove, once again, that he was indeed the master of the witty put down. Instead he contented himself with lowering his head to the bar and banging it repeatedly.

"Yeah right, like anyone's ever heard of a 'wham-bam-thank-you-sir'"

Laurence rolled his eyes at Tina's pronouncement. "Right, it's all the men's fault, you poor little put upon women...I don't know why you put up with us."

"Mainly because D-cells are so damn expensive." she retorted.

Mike just shook his head, bewildered. "What is your fixation with batteries?"

Claire was just about to elucidate him when she noticed Trevor doing this agitated little two-step towards the back of the coffee house. She frowned and watched him for several seconds trying to figure out exactly what he was hoping to express. He'd clasped both hands together and dropped to his knees when she figured out he was looking for permission to speak. With a resolute shake of her head she smiled and started to turn her attention back to the group. Before she'd looked away entirely she noted he was currently enacting a fatal wound to the chest and slumping back on the floor rather dramatically. For the first time since they'd met she was able to score herself a full point, she'd done it, she'd finally bested him. She almost felt like celebrating, too bad Alex was in New York.

Meanwhile, the defeated God of Love dragged himself back onto his stool and began scribbling furiously in his notebook. He might not be able to share his commentary with the group but if he didn't get it out of his system in some manner he was quite certain he would explode. It was a pretty safe bet that the employees of Cuppa Java would not appreciate spending the next week getting bits and pieces of Greco-Roman deity out of the furniture and carpet. So he'd vent in written form and share it with Claire later. Obviously it would lose something in the translation and after the fact, but it was the only viable option at present. He was beginning to think he might just make it through this weekend, mind intact, after all.


	10. Chapter 10

Claire said her good nights to the few lingering members of her group then went to tap Trevor on the shoulder. She couldn't quite make out what had him so fascinated, but felt quite certain that whatever he was scribbling furiously would be shared with her at some point. He looked up a bit startled, as if utterly consumed by his project. With a slow blink he asked, "Is the meeting over already?"

"Yes, Trevor, it is." She tried to glance over his bulky shoulder to get a look at what he'd been working on.

He made sure to block the notebook with his body and grinned, in what he hoped was a semi-innocent manner. "So's that it for today? Am I freed from my indentured servitude?"

The psychologist dodged around his other side in a vain attempt to get a peek at his notebook. "As soon as I walk you home you are."

Clutching the sheets to his chest until he could grab his coat, Trevor returned, "Walking me home, huh? You wanna' carry my books too?"

"No, but I do want to make sure that you go home, rather than trying to track down and match up any of the people attending the meeting tonight."

His 'Who me?' expression was a little forced to say the least. "Why Dr. Allen I had no such intention. Actually I was just hoping to make it home in time to catch the end of 'Hercules versus the Moon Men'...Now to the best of my recollection Herc never actually faced enemies from beyond the stars so I'm kinda keen on finding out what happens." Trevor's near manic grin didn't distract Claire from trying, discreetly of course, to get a look at his notes. "Personally I'm hoping this flick takes our boy through a few of mom's temples, or a secluded grotto complete with busty, scantily clad, obliging nymphs. Of course that's pretty much what I'm looking for in most films..."

As he shrugged into his jacket, the notebook was slipped quickly into an inner pocket. Frowning, Claire asked, "That wouldn't happen to be the dream journal I've been asking you to keep, would it?"

"'Fraid not, though tonight's meeting sure did inspire me to doze off. I never realized how dull these things were before I started actively participating in them."

"I think the word you're looking for is 'disrupting', and contrary to, well, _your_ belief, we actually accomplished a great deal tonight."

"You wanna' know what you accomplished?" Trevor held the door open and gestured gallantly for Claire to proceed him out of the coffeehouse.

"Do tell."

"You succeeded in creating the therapy equivalent of a 'mickey'. I'm telling you, start tape recording sessions like that and you can sell them as an over the counter sedative." He let his head drop to the side and feigned snoring until she made a disgusted noise and jabbed the elevator's down button.

"Trevor, if it were up to you each session would include a disco ball and pyrotechnics."

"Now see," he began with an enthusiastic nod as they entered the empty elevator, "that's a great idea!"

"This may be difficult to conceive, but most adults have an attention span in excess of two minutes. I've seen hyperactive three year olds who were less fidgety!"

"Can I help it if, as a higher power, I have the energy level to match?"

As they stepped out onto the street, both immediately closed up their coats. The temperature had dropped a good twenty degrees with the setting of the sun and the wind was beginning to have a definite bite. Claire wondered if walking Trevor home was really necessary, then imagining him heading straight for Taggerdy's to undo everything she'd managed to achieve during the meeting, she came to the conclusion that it definitely was. "I hope divinity also gives you a higher core body temperature too, it's freezing out here!"

He grunted and thrust both hands quickly into his pockets. "Thank you so very much, Uncle Hades."

"Huh?"

Glancing up with a grimace, Trevor elucidated his therapist. "You know, he gets a happy when he sees Persephone, goes all Neanderthal, does a snatch and grab and takes off with her on his chariot. Actually I've gotta' admit that was one incredibly cool ride, had sixty inch diameter wheels on that bad boy, four inch iron spikes, and a black leather interior. He used to spend centuries souping it up, that was before he settled down with Sephie, of course. After she moved in the chariot was the first thing to go. Suddenly all he wants to talk about is marble flooring and lawn care. Sad really." The look of absolute puzzlement on Claire's face brought him abruptly back to the point. "Oh come on, surely the public school system in this country isn't that lacking. Hades grabs Aunt Sephie, her mom Demeter gets ticked royal and decides to give everybody the cold shoulder, literally, until her baby girl comes home. Gramps finally comes up with a solution...kinda like a timeshare type deal, and while Hades is getting his share of boo-tay the rest of us are freezing ours off."

"I would've thought that you'd be on his side, I mean being such an outspoken advocate of love."

"Don't get me wrong, when the manure hit the fan I was totally behind the big guy. Of course at the time I had no idea I'd actually have to spend a winter living with mortals. I mean it was all really hypothetical to me at that point. Gods don't have to worry about hypothermia, and I guarantee you they don't need to shovel." His meandering oration came to an abrupt halt as he caught sight of a group of street musicians. As they drew nearer to the quartet his mood began to improve, by the time they were within listening distance he was positively beaming. Of course that was probably because the four young men were currently belting out "All You Need is Love".

Claire didn't bother to hide her own smile as Trevor joined in on the chorus, joyously adding "Everybody!" and "Love is all you need" at the appropriate moments. They finished with a flourish and bowed over their acoustic guitars. The small crowd they'd attracted showered them with adulation and more than a few five and ten dollar bills. Trevor applauded wildly and quickly fished out a twenty to add to their kitty, then turned back to Claire. Still practically delirious with pleasure he chirped, "I've existed for over three millennia but I can tell you with complete and utter certainty that 'All You Need is Love' is the pinnacle of human creation. Pyramids of Giza? Notre Dame cathedral? The Mona Lisa? Forget about it."

They crossed the street and Trevor gestured to his door. "Well Warden Allen, I've made it back to my cell quietly, can I call it a night, or have you got your own particularly nasty version of 'The Box' you wanna toss me in?"

She smirked and replied, "Don't tell me I actually managed to make your life even slightly unpleasant today...disrupted your usual routine...I think you see where I'm going with this."

He gave her a blank stare. "Not a clue."

Sighing Claire shook her head and muttered, "Why am I not surprised. For someone who rated so high on intelligence tests, you can be surprisingly dense at times."

"Only when it's in my best interests, I can assure you."

"I hate to break this to you, Trevor, but if you were truly intent on serving your own best interests you'd at least attempt to play along with me."

"Oh Claire," he fluttered his eyelids at her flirtatiously as he purred, "you know I'm always happy to play with you...Though I've gotta' say I much prefer naked Twister to 'Humor the Psychologist'."

"Fine, if you're determined to make life difficult for yourself far be it from me to try to dissuade you. But bear in mind that you've only got yourself to blame for what happens tomorrow."

That brought a slightly concerned expression to his face. "So exactly how much blame should I be looking forward to shouldering?"

"Let's just say I was determined to play nice today, tomorrow however the gloves come off..."

"So then I should bring along the dog collar and ball gag?"

"...today I was being a professional, a therapist hoping that through basic behavior modification I could make an impact on my patient. But tomorrow..."

Trevor grimaced and waited for the verbal bomb to drop.

"Tomorrow is strictly about revenge."

Visions of himself sporting a French Maid's costume and serving as a footstool at one of Claire's weekly academic mixers made his blood actually run cold. She wouldn't. Would she? Nah. Well...maybe. The suspense was quite literally killing him. Not that he'd let her know, he'd sooner spend the remainder of his mortal existence spit polishing the downtown bus station's public restrooms. "Guess I'd better get to bed then. I'll wanna be well rested for the fresh hell you've got planned for me in the morning."

"Good idea, Trevor." She started to turn away, then threw him a cocky glance over her shoulder. "Sweet dreams."

His saccharine smile drooped into a frown before she'd taken two steps away. "Gloat while you can, Dr. Allen, but we'll see who has the last laugh."


	11. Chapter 11

Trevor awoke in front of the t.v. when Champ made a noisy entrance to their apartment. On the screen Steve Reeves was announcing in a rather poorly dubbed voice that he was off to defeat the Spartans, and laying a rather inept but enthusiastic smooch on his leading lady. Trevor shook his head in disgust, in reality Herc would've been much more likely to be practicing tonsil hockey with one of the Spartans. So much for historical accuracy. Ah well, he'd just have to suspend his disbelief...at least until said leading lady decided to don a longer toga. "Late night?"

His roommate actually grinned as he rhapsodized on his date. "Believe it! Trevor, you wouldn't believe what a night I had. We started out at the Tuscador indulging in a three course gourmet meal. Then we tooled around in Liz's brand new Porsche 911..."

"Liz? Hmm, sounds as if you and your sugar mama hit it off quite nicely."

"I'm telling you, if I weren't so committed to my art I'd seriously consider a career as a gigolo. I could definitely get used to living in the lap of luxury."

"On the subject of laps, did you get the opportunity to try hers out?"

Champ frowned disapprovingly, but Trevor could tell he was only doing so on principle. "No, you can't really get too cozy in box seats at the opera."

"Oh Champ, my dear deluded friend, I could tell you stories about just how cozy two or more individuals actually can get in box seats at the opera. As a matter of fact no less than twelve world leaders were conceived in exactly that way."

"Twelve, huh?" The taller man paused to consider this, then shook his head as if to clear the nonsensical thought away. "Whatever. Anyway, after the opera we had champagne with the entire cast backstage. See Liz is one of the company's biggest patrons. She's very into the arts..."

Trevor nodded knowingly. "I'll just bet she is, and probably interested in getting even more into them, at least where you're concerned."

"Yeah, well I don't know about that. But I do know that I'm definitely looking forward to tomorrow. We're going to a big exhibition opening, I think it's Impressionists or something. Anyway, it's going to be a great place to rub elbows with the rich and powerful of Chicago."

"Elbows aren't exactly the body parts I'd choose to rub with those folks, but I guess it's better than nothing."

Champ noted the rather bleak mood that had settled over his usually jubilant friend. "Claire ran you through the wringer today, huh?"

"Well, all things considered it could have been worse...I'm probably going to find out just how much worse tomorrow."

"Well I hate to say this, Trevor, but if you didn't constantly go out of your way to antagonize her you wouldn't be in this position."

"But I don't go out of my way to antagonize her, I assure you it's very much in my way. It's almost like a conditioned response, she makes even an innocent comment and I feel the unstoppable need to respond with a smart ass reply. If I weren't a god I'd say it was genetic." He stood and stretched with a tremendous yawn. "I've put this off long enough, might as well get to bed so I can get tomorrow over with as quickly as possible."

"Did she tell you what she had in mind?"

Trevor shook his head sadly. "No, just implied rather broadly that it was going to be highly unpleasant."

"I'd like to say I'll be thinking about you tomorrow, but ah, I think I'll be too busy."

Trevor met Champ's winsome grin with a scowl that would've done a Harpy proud. He turned his gaze ceiling-ward and growled, "Feel free to strike him down any time, guys." When no lightening bolt shattered the peace of their apartment he threw his hands in the air and stomped rather petulantly into his room. Champ's dry chuckles followed him the entire way.


	12. Chapter 12

The impassioned gasping that usually accompanied acts too reckless to engage in during this particular decade (without a layer of latex) brought Trevor awake with a start. It took several long seconds for him to orient himself to location, era, and circumstances. That hazy period that marked most of his mornings now generally left his body far more alert than his mind. Indeed, certain parts of his anatomy had already processed the noises around him and responded accordingly.

Alas, Chaka Khan's throaty purr brought his brain unwillingly up to speed. "Tell Me Something Good" wasn't exactly the kind of song to impel him up and out of bed...quite the contrary. Still he supposed it was better than "Livin' La Vida Loca". The mere notion of having that song stuck in his head made him shiver with horror. He'd have thought twice before subjecting even Charles Manson to that cruel fate.

With a heartfelt sigh, he slapped the alarm button on his clock and threw off the blankets. His body went from toasty to frigid in the span of about two seconds. Just one more of the many perks to life on the mortal plane. On the upside it was far more effective than even a half gallon of espresso. Cold, he'd discovered, like pain, was one helluva motivator. Right now it was motivating him post haste into a nice, hot shower.

Passing rather groggily through the combination living room/dining room in the spacious apartment he shared with Champ, Trevor wondered briefly if he was having some sort of olfactory hallucination. He could swear the unmistakable scent of his roommate's very own Jamaican Blue Mountain blend was wafting sensuously through the room. But at 7:00 a.m.? On a Sunday? When all sane Chicagoans were nestled snugly in their respective beds? It simply did not compute.

Following his obviously delusional nose, he found to his shock and delight that indeed there was a pot merrily perking away. More precious than life's blood to a weary early morning riser like himself was this two-cup size glass container of pure ambrosia. Sitting neatly beside this miracle was a note in Champ's flowing script, "Thought you could use this."

Trevor concluded that there were now two mortals who were getting their very own constellations just as soon as he got reinstated. "Jackie: Provider of Candy" would sparkle fetchingly beside "Champ: Maker of Coffee". He'd make sure they got good spots, none of that only visible in certain parts of the Australian outback every ten years for his saviors. He was already making mental astrological placement notes in his head as he loped into the bathroom.

\--

The doorbell chimed as Claire licked the last remaining evidence of her Sunday morning cream cheese overindulgence from her fingers. It wasn't that she was ashamed of her eating habits, nor that she particularly cared what Trevor knew about her dietary faux pas. At least that was what she was busy telling herself as the doorbell chimed once again. It was simply none of his business what she ate or didn't eat on a Sunday morning. Certainly his own dietary habits left much to be desired. In fact once she'd seen him eat an entire box of Ding Dongs, followed by a Jolt chaser. Of course with his pre-adolescent metabolism he could get away with that sort of behavior. Life, she decided firmly, was just not fair.

As she reached for the doorknob the bell chimed once again, but this time she could almost swear it had a mocking undertone. Now she was attributing human characteristics to home appliances? What next? The certainty that Trevor and her toaster were in cahoots to burn her morning bagel? Not that she'd put it past him, but a mental health professional had to draw the line somewhere.

As her door swung open she noted with barely contained glee that her patient seemed less than delighted to be there. For some reason a dour mood on his part never failed to brighten her spirits. It was petty and entirely immature, she could admit that in the privacy of her own thoughts. But Claire Allen was a woman who took joy where she found it, and at the moment it was glaring rather sullenly from clearly sleep-deprived eyes.

Maintaining a demeanor of calm professionalism taxed by a severe itch to gloat, Claire once again proved she was in complete control of her emotions. Well, at least in control of her facial expression. "Good morning, Sunshine."

Trevor let her have her momentary gleeful superiority, knowing full well she'd be impossible to deal with if he didn't. "I knew it...you're a morning person..."

"You make that sound like a bad thing."

"That's because it is. I'd rather have lunch with Mussolini than breakfast with an early riser." He pushed in the doorway and stomped snow covered shoes on the entry carpet.

Claire winced and frowned as several large chunks tumbled onto her polished hardwood flooring. "You consider morning people less pleasant than fascist dictators? Why am I not surprised?"

"Sure the guy wasn't the greatest conversationalist but you wouldn't believe the canoli he could make. Real gourmet stuff, not that Chef Boyardee crap." Shucking his coat onto a nearby chair, Trevor continued his reminiscing. "But morning people? They're like an overenthusiastic terrier at the crack of dawn, and they all want to climb Mount Kilimanjaro by the time most people are trying to decide which foot goes in which shoe. I mean look at you and me..."

"I." she corrected absently, while shutting the door and morning his coat to the appropriate rack.

"See? It's eight on a Sunday morning and you're actually capable of correcting grammar while I'm standing here with all the mental capacity of one of the junkies in 'Trainspotting'. That's just wrong."

"Oh and the fact that I can function first thing in the morning is somehow my fault?"

"Obviously." he guffawed.

"You know I'm sure there's some absolutely fascinating mental gymnastics involved in bringing you to that particular conclusion, but I'm really not interested in hearing it. Fortunately your assignment today won't require an IQ over the double digits."

"Claire, that covers a whole lot of possibilities, but I get the feeling you're not referring to any of the more pleasant ones."

"Well, what do you know? Both remaining brain cells are actually functioning..."

"Flatterer." Trevor did a slow turn around the living room, then spread his hands wide. "So what's on the agenda, and can I have a hint about where the hidden cameras are? I'm not really much of a guesser at this hour."

"Trevor, I find the notion of having you around in some sort of semi-permanent format more than a little unappealing. Trust me, there are no hidden cameras, or any other sort of recording device."

"Well, there goes this year's Solstice present."

With a smirk she replied, "Actually this entire weekend is probably the best gift I could've given myself."

"You mean forty eight hours in my presence?"

"I mean forty eight hours with you under my control...for a change."

"And she calls me delusional!" he muttered to himself.

"What was that?" Claire leaned forward, hands planted firmly on hips. "I didn't quite catch that undoubtedly snarky response."

"Actually it was more witty than snarky, but it does remind me of something I've been meaning to take up with you." Taking a seat on the psychiatrist's couch, he leaned back and almost plopped his feet on the coffee table. One look at her warning expression was enough to arrest that movement, and he firmly planted them on the floor with a roll of his eyes. "We never talk, you know, just sit and chat."

"Chat?" She had absolutely no idea where he was going with this. They talked literally every day, sometimes two or three times a day..often more.

"Yeah, gab, converse, discourse, orate. We never exchange ideas in a pleasant manner."

"Of course we do, Trevor, we talk all the time."

He held up a finger to contradict her. "No, no we don't. Think about it, either you're lecturing me or I'm scoring points in our ongoing verbal tennis match. In either case it's almost always professional. Either you're concerned about my psyche or I'm trying to convince you that I know exactly what I'm doing where making a love connection is concerned."

Crossing her arms and assuming her most stern look, she returned, "You know it's just remotely possible that I'm not interested in hearing your little ideas."

"My ideas are not little, trust me. Like my ego, and certain unmentionable portions of my anatomy, my ideas could best be described as 'ample', or if you prefer, 'immense'." At her bemused titter Trevor's bottom lip protruded in a childlike pout. "I could have deep thoughts. I could have a whole new take on Einstein's theories, or maybe I'd like to discuss Wordsworth, or..."

"Or perhaps a treatise on the Three Stooges?"

"For all you know I could have the cure for the Y2K bug!"

"You don't."

"I could." Her dubious expression put him on the defensive. "I could!"

"Trevor, it is my firm conviction that your idea of a 'deep conversation' would be engaging in the 'Pre-reduction versus Post-reduction Pamela Lee Anderson' debate." Settling daintily beside her patient she looked him straight in the eye and switched mental tracks before he could recover enough to respond. "So do you?"

Trevor blinked, grappling for which precise conversation fragment she wanted to pursue. "Do I what?"

"Have a fix for the Y2K bug? Because you know if you did you could make a fortune, and live like the wealthy gadabout you've always wanted to."

"Don't you mean 'wealthy Godabout'?"

"No, I definitely do not."

"Typical morning person, absolutely no sense of humor." Trevor decided to employ the same tactic she'd just used. "To answer your question, though, no I do not have a Y2K bug solution. Strange as it may sound I had very little interest in computers before having my wings quite literally 'clipped'. I see that for the shortsightedness it was. Do you have any idea how many people are hooking up online? It's downright terrifying! I was thinking if I could talk Champ into buying a p.c. I could start my own web page, 'Ask Cupid'. You know, as a way to reach out to the masses, thereby speeding up the whole hundred couples thing."

"I really don't think that's a very good idea Trevor. That kind of action might give the competence committee the impression that rather than getting better you're actually descending further into your delusional state." Claire shook her head, knowing full well that that particular threat would have little to no meaning for him. His next words confirmed it.

"I can soft shoe my way out of any competency hearing, Claire, you know that."

She nodded rather morosely. "Yes I do, I just wish it wasn't necessary."

"Once again I have to remind you that you can't 'cure' someone of an illness that doesn't exist." His eyes were so earnest that for half a second she almost believed he might actually be who he constantly insisted he was. She shook the thought off with a slight shiver, now he had her doing it!

"And may I remind you that as your psychologist it's my duty to help you to see that though you may not recognize it, you are suffering from an illness. I don't know what trauma caused you to retreat into this delusional state, but I will find out."

Trevor paused to ponder that statement, suddenly taking an uncommon interest in Claire's interior decorating scheme. With a deep breath he muttered, "Ok, so now I know why we never just chat. We're coming from diametrically oppositional world views. I know who and what I am, Claire, but I don't fit into your concept of reality." He shrugged a bit dismissively. "It's not like I'm not used to it. I mean honestly, when was the last time you heard of someone leaving an offering at one of my temples? I only exist to most of you mortals today as some Pampers wearing mutated little freak baby. I could throttle Botticelli and the rest of those hack painters. Sure the Renaissance was a giant leap forward in human understanding, but it was hell on us Greco-Roman deities."

It was way too early in the morning for this sort of thing, indeed the psychologist could almost feel the beginnings of a migraine coming on. "You're right, this is a complete waste of time...And considering what I've got lined up for you today, time is definitely not something you can afford to waste."

There was that smile again, the one that made all of his nerves tingle with apprehension and made his stomach feel like it was on a rapidly descending elevator going straight to Hades. Not quite up to anything remotely resembling his usual droll banter, he managed to squeak, "Oh?"

"Follow me." With that she stood smoothly and crooked her finger at him to follow. Trevor did so with the sort of trepidation usually reserved for dentist's visits or prostate exams. Standing in the doorway to her expansive, modern kitchen, she spread her arms wide. "I want you to clean this room, top to bottom."

Either he'd just misheard her, or their concepts of satisfying vengeance were on totally different planes of existence. "Beg pardon?"

"You heard me, I want this room glistening by the end of the day."

As far as he was concerned it was already immaculate. Ok, so the cream colored floor tiles could use a mopping, and maybe the counters weren't quite as sparkly as they might be...but this was the sort of assignment that might take him an hour...two, tops. Two possibilities presented themselves to his rather addled mind. One, she had absolutely no concept how long it took a person to properly clean a kitchen. Two, there was some fiendishly clever clause attached to this chore that he had yet to hear. 'I'll take door number two, Monty,' he thought with a grimace.

"And I want you to clean it with...this."

The former resident of Mount Olympus actually visibly flinched when he saw that between her two slender fingers she held a brand new soft bristled Reach toothbrush.


	13. Chapter 13

Trevor had stripped off his sweater and shucking his shoes pondered the truly Herculean task before him. Undoubtedly his demi-God cousin would've simply rerouted a small river through Claire's kitchen, then kicked back with a couple of Buds. Alas, Trevor was working without supernatural powers at the moment...though at this point he would've settled for a reasonably large sponge.

Glancing down at the bottle of Mr. Clean that sat mocking him in the middle of the kitchen floor beside a brand new plastic bucket, Trevor brought to bear several centuries worth of experience. He, Cupid, God of Love, would not (and he couldn't emphasize this enough), not be defeated by even this crushingly menial task. It wasn't the Olympian way. Well, ok, to be totally honest the Olympian way generally consisted of bullying some mortal into doing all the menial crap then taking the credit for oneself. Not, perhaps, the most noble way of dealing with problems, but he had to admit, it did have some decided advantages.

When it came right down to it, aside from bullying some poor sot into doing this for him, he was fresh out of ideas. As he saw it, the only real question now was, where to begin? If nothing else, several sitcoms had taught him that beginning with the floor near the door would be a bad thing. Of course when some idiot on t.v. managed to mop themselves into a corner it was usually good for at least a brief laugh. He had the feeling that should he end up in a similar predicament he'd be much more likely to burst into tears.

So, counters it was. Right, just put some water in the bucket, add a dash of cleaning solution and...scrub. It hit him with a suddenness that left him a little dizzy, that his own personal version of rock bottom was clearly within sight. Oh sure he'd been within a stone's throw before, with frightening frequency since being demoted, but how much further could one descend from scrubbing a kitchen with a toothbrush?

On the other hand, if this was it, absolute bottom, that meant it was all up from here. Somehow that thought wasn't quite as comforting as it should be. Heaving a beleaguered sigh, he stooped to grab the bucket. He caught sight of Claire watching him with a bemused smirk. "You know, as satisfying as this taste of drudgery for me might be in small doses, I can't really imagine that I'm going to provide all that much entertainment value today."

"Don't worry about me, Trevor, I have plans for today that do not involve watching you buff my kitchen. In fact in a couple of hours I'm going to meet a friend for lunch down town, but in the meantime I'll be in the living room working on my article. If you need anything just give me a holler."

Trevor did a quick mental inventory: toothbrush, check, bucket of water, check, Mr. Clean, check, a quickly dissolving sense of self worth, check. What else could he possibly require today? Well, there was one thing... "Hey, do I get a radio or something?"

Claire's eyebrow shot up. "What do you need a radio for?"

"Oh come on, even inmates get to listen to music when they end up being assigned the exact same task in their cell block."

"I don't think so, I have work to do and I don't need any distractions."

"Um, could I just point out that in the long run giving me the radio will undoubtedly prove much less distracting to you?"

She laughed and turned on her heel to pad back into the living room. A smile began to work its way from Trevor's now positively sparkling eyes across the width and breadth of his face. Had Claire been able to see it she might well have reconsidered her hasty decision.

As she began typing this week's article, tentatively titled "Foreplay for Dummies", she was startled by Trevor's deep, and decidedly untrained voice from the kitchen. "The name game...Shirley, Shirley, bo-Birley, bo-nana, fana fo-Firley, me, mi, mo-Mirley...Shirley!"

"Trevor!"

He paused, and peeked around the door frame, "Yes, Mistress?"

After a deep breath and a quick count to ten she continued, "Can't you just work quietly?"

Taking that question into consideration, Trevor tapped his lips thoughtfully, then replied, "No, no I don't believe I can. I can't help it, Claire, I'm used to working at Taggerty's. There's always some kind of music playing there. I've been programmed to work best with musical accompaniment."

"Well try."

"I did, then I decided if I couldn't have a radio I'd just have to do something about it myself."

She glared over the rims of her spectacles. "I'm not going to give in on this, Trevor, so you just go ahead and sing your little heart out."

"Your wish is my command." With that he disappeared back into the recesses of the kitchen. A few seconds later his voice echoed out, "Let's do Claire! Claire, Claire, bo-Blaire, bo-nana, fana, fo-Flaire, me, mi, mo-Mlaire...Claire." Ten minutes later, and he'd managed to make his way through the main characters in the Iliad. Within twenty minutes every member of the Greek, Roman, and a good portion of the Egyptian pantheon found their names subjected to the same treatment. He then proceeded to tackle every person of their combined acquaintance with meticulous care. By the time he reached her former and current lovers, she'd had more than enough.

"All right!" Storming into the room, she practically flung a small hand-held radio at him. "There, take it, just...just stop singing!"

Trevor had a bad moment when the device almost ended up in the water-filled bucket, and he silently thanked the Fates that he'd always been good with his hands. He caught it deftly and snapped it on with relish. "Why thank you, Claire, that was mighty thoughtful of ya. And I promise to leave the crooning to the professionals from now on, 'kay?"

"Keep it down and get back to work." she grumbled, stalking back out of sight.

\---

Two hours later Claire shucked her sensible pumps, saved the three whole paragraphs she'd managed to pound out, and crept on stockinged feet to the kitchen. She took her time, content with the knowledge that here, in her own home, she had the decided advantage. Yes, this time she would actually manage to sneak up on Trevor Hale.

Making sure to avoid all the loose floorboards, she started to peek around the door. In the farthest corner, seemingly oblivious, Trevor was scrubbing diligently away with his toothbrush. Louis Jordan crooned softly from the radio, "Knock Me a Kiss". Her patient's startlingly attractive backside was swaying in time with the music as he knelt on all fours.

The urge to swat that inviting target was disturbingly powerful and entirely unsettling, coming as it did on the heels of the thought that maybe, just maybe, that French maid's outfit wasn't such a bad idea after all. It took several long seconds of internal rationalization for Claire to chalk it up to a combination of sexual frustration and a profound desire to inflict some sort of tangible physical punishment on the man who all too often made her life far too complex and aggravating. Indeed, if Trevor hadn't chosen that moment to speak she might well have been able to write the entire impulse off as a false memory inspired by a bad piece of pizza from the night before.

"So you gonna' say something or did you just plan to stand there and stare at my butt all day?" He'd paused to peer at her over one bulky shoulder, both eyebrows nearly reaching his somewhat receding hairline. "I know I belong to you for the next few hours, but I'm starting to feel a little cheap here."

"Just wanted to make sure you weren't pawing through my cabinets or eating what's left in my fridge." Frankly the explanation sounded pretty damn thin to her, apparently Trevor agreed with that assessment.

"You just keep telling yourself that, Claire, maybe you'll start to believe it. But just for the record, you have my tacit approval to ogle me like a piece of meat any time you want, just give me a little notice so I can pose...wouldn't want you to get my bad side..." A cheeky grin was accompanied by, "And that doesn't just go for this weekend either."

His leering innuendo-laden words had a rather startlingly dual effect on Claire. On the one hand she was disgusted by the very notion of what he was suggesting; while another part of her was almost tempted to take him up on the offer just to see what he'd do. The inevitable conflict always left her feeling a little irritable and just a bit off balance. Time for a little of the old Claire Allen caustic wit and redirection.

"Trevor, the only man I'm currently interested in treating like a piece of meat is in New York. But even if he weren't I can personally assure you that ogling you would be pretty far down my list of things to do. I'd rank it just above forty eight hours of hard labor and a little below an extended stay with a Russian women's weightlifting team."

His brown eyes became rather glassy with distraction for a second or two before he snapped back to reality. "Sorry, I was just having the most interesting vision of your room with Svetlana and Katrina, just you and two babushka wearing sides of beef. Thanks, Claire, you've just furnished me with a new happy place...and given me a killer idea for a new sitcom!"

"Why do I even bother?" she exclaimed to the ceiling.

Trevor's eyes followed hers and he wondered who exactly she was addressing. The universe at large would be his guess, as she didn't seem to have any particular religious affiliation. Or at least he hoped she didn't, there were big plans brewing in the darker recesses of Trevor's mind for Claire once he regained all his godly attributes. Oh yes, big plans indeed. Perhaps a nice shiny new marble temple...with all sorts of surfaces in need of a good buffing...via toothbrush. Things could get sticky if he had to battle some modern deity for the rights to inflicting a little divine retribution on the good doctor.

Just the smallest of titters escaped him before he could clamp a firm lid on his glee. Best not to give her any further incentive towards maliciousness today. Her eyes narrowed at the sound, but he was pretty sure she'd simply write it off as a giggle over her inability to flay him with her words. "Trevor, I'm leaving, when I get back I expect to see at least half of his kitchen sparkling. I'm talking eating off the floor and seeing my reflection in the counters clean, do I make myself clear?"

He refrained from comment, deciding to play it safe just this once. Nodding as innocently as he could manage, he waved with the hand holding his toothbrush and watched her turn to go. "And if I get back and find out you've been looking through my stuff you do realize I'll stuff you and mount you, right?"

Pausing for a long minute he finally shook his head and muttered, "No, that's just too easy...like fish in a barrel."

Poking her head back around the entry way she growled, "Must you turn everything I say into some sort of double entendre?"

Giving her a sideways glance and a half smile he returned, "That's a rhetorical question, right?"

"I'm serious about this, Trevor, you stay here and you do your job. I find you trying on my lingerie or something and you're a dead man. I'm a doctor, Trevor, I know exactly how to dispose of the body, trust me on this. I've given it lots of thought."

"It always comes back to my body with you, doesn't it?" Seeing the near murderous glint in the psychologist's eyes he relented. "Ok, ok, I'll stay put and do what I'm told. See?" He leaned over and began to scour the floor once more.

"I'll be back in a few hours."

When he wanted to, really wanted to, Trevor Hale could be incredibly patient. Granted, most of the time he was of the considered opinion that virtues were, on the whole, entirely overrated. This time, however, he was firmly convinced that this particular one was going to reward him greatly. So, he waited, quietly working until he finally heard Claire stride out the door. Straightening, he crept just into the dining room, ears attuned to the slightest noise. The satisfying thrum of her car's engine, and the even more welcome sound of it fading into the distance, put the bounce back into his step. Rubbing his hands together with relish he purred, "Now, if I were a diary, where would I be?"


	14. Chapter 14

Unfortunately despite a thorough search of the premises (which turned up a rather humiliating yearbook photo, but nothing truly worthwhile as blackmail material), he'd come up empty. Knowing Claire she'd probably taken the precaution of investing in a safety deposit box for all her goodies before he showed up on her doorstep this morning. Ah well, he'd just have to make his own entertainment. And if there was one thing Trevor Hale excelled at, it was keeping himself amused.

But first, he had an entire kitchen floor to swab with his trusty little Reach. If he didn't make at least a reasonable amount of progress before she got back there'd be Tartarus to pay. So in a burst of what might almost be labeled "workmanlike resolve", Trevor got reluctantly back to work.

He paused to study the grinning visage on the bottle and smiled back at it. "Nothing like a good ammonia buzz in the morning to start your day off right...though I'm fairly certain you're also responsible for melting my nose hairs away. And my sinuses probably now resemble Hiroshima..." He brought the bottle still closer and tilted his head to gaze at the label more minutely. "Mr. Clean, huh? You know I'm guessing that all the rippling biceps are directly attributable to a childhood trauma. Mmm, I'm thinking in your case probably a girly name. Maybe Terrance...or Percy...no, Eugene! Eugene Clean, oh yeah, I can almost hear the taunts and smell the heady tang of desperation. A few years getting colorful limericks devoted to you bulked ya up real good. Way to repress, my man!"

Pouring a little more of the amber, lemon-scented fluid in the bucket, he dipped his brush and began the rhythmic scrubbing once more. "I've gotta' say, I respect the fact that you're comfortable enough with your sexuality to go with a big gold hoop earring." The toothbrush made a comforting scratch, scratch, scratch sound. "I'm not sure what to make of the get-up, sorta' Popeye on shore leave, huh? Or maybe Mr. Rourke goes butch? It's a definite statement, my man, I'll give you that."

The shine off the floor in the mid-day sun was almost painful. Kinda reminded him of the gleam off Mr. Clean's bald pate. "Hey, Eugene...can I call you Eugene? 'Cause I feel like we're really bonding here today, you and me. There's something I've been meaning to ask you, big man. Your career choice is making me wonder. I mean the girlie name was enough to inspire this steroid-assisted overcompensation, makes me wonder why you'd go for such a feminine profession."

He paused and waggled the toothbrush at his diminutive companion. "Wait a sec, it's because you get to spend all day every day with the chicks, isn't it? Oh yeah," Grinning and nodding with exaggerated care. "You, Eugene, are a *genius*! Now I finally understand that smile on your face, big guy. At first I just attributed it to brain damage from years of inhaling the fumes from your own products. Actually a few more hours of sniffing this stuff and I'm going to have that same expression permanently plastered on my own face. Just do me a favor, man, don't start talking back to me or Claire'll have me in a rubber room before you can say, 'Chemically induced brain damage'."

\---

Trevor actually managed to tough it out for the better part of forty five minutes before the urge to wander once again impelled him away from his duties. Claire's cabinets and cupboards were hideously lacking in entertainment value. Her entire house was one of those "a place for everything and everything in its place" Martha Stewart-esque nightmares. Unsurprisingly he couldn't find so much as an inappropriate video or questionable book in the place. With a heavy heart he returned once more to his task.

This time he stayed at it for just over an hour, clearly a new world's record, and decided to reward himself. Trevor was just completing his final, finishing touches when a tingle at the base of his spine made him glance up at the window. Claire's convertible was just gliding up to the curb. "Jumpin' Jupiter!" Several frilly undergarments momentarily became airborne at his startled exclamation. Stooping to grab them he quickly straightened and replaced each with as much care as possible under the circumstances. They were no longer neatly folded, rather arranged in a colorful, rainbow like pattern in the top drawer of Claire's bureau.

He'd briefly considered displaying his artistic creation on the bed, just for the shock effect. Then it occurred to him that that was a little...ostentatious. Not to mention dangerous. This was much more subtle, but effective. The beautiful part was Claire wouldn't notice his handiwork until after he was long gone. No chance of retribution while still under the therapists' iron fist. Once she freed him from his enforced servitude he'd high-tail it back home and wait gleefully by the answering machine for the fallout.

"Time to gloat later!" Trevor reminded himself sternly, closing the drawer with a decisive click. He paused for a second to close his eyes and run through Claire's usual car exiting routine. By this point she should have double checked her distance from the curb, given her make-up and hair a cursory glance in the rear-view mirror and made any last minute repairs. Nodding in satisfaction, Trevor bolted for the stairs while his mind's eye continued to play out the events unfolding outside.

He was sliding down the banister by the time his internal film projector showed him Claire clicking the auto alarm/lock remote. Unfortunately the time he gained by skipping the stairs was lost when his socked-feet contacted her hardwood floors. A slight miscalculation that, and almost a disastrous one as inertia caused him to body-slam her door. He managed to rap both elbows hard enough to send a jolt of tingling shocking pain racing down the length of both his arms. He was silently screaming and attempted to shake some feeling back into them as he skidded through her living room.

Trevor could almost hear the psychologist's practical, economic stride on the sidewalk as she made her way up to the stairs. A dining room chair sitting slightly askew nearly did him in. Fortunately his reflexes were one god-like attribute he'd managed to maintain during his banishment. With a move that would've done Doug Flutie proud, he dodged the obstacle and made it across the threshold of the kitchen. Just then he heard the unmistakable sound of Claire's front door squeaking open.

Dropping to his knees, he slid over to his abandoned toothbrush and floor polish. "Eat your heart out, Fred Astaire," he whispered, settling back to work.

Claire bustled into the room a split second later and Trevor had to bite his lip to keep from smirking. "So," she said, dropping two large shopping bags on the counter. "Still hard at work?"

"Yes'm." her seemingly obedient slave returned.

She gazed at him speculatively for several long seconds and Trevor did his best to control his ragged breathing. He was just starting to get a little light headed from oxygen deprivation when she returned to the living room to hang up her coat. A few deep gulps of air later and he was almost feeling normal again.

Claire returned briskly and unpacked a box of crackers, some microwave popcorn, and a bottle of spring water. Each one went into their assigned places in the cabinets as Trevor continued to at least pretend to concentrate on his task. The amazingly enticing scent of vegetable lo mein was drifting throughout the room, reminding Trevor just how hungry he was after a hard day's work. Practically salivating, he turned to give Claire his very best starving puppy look. Whether it was the slight trembling of his lower lip, the altogether sincere whimper, or the downright piteous glimmer in his dark eyes he couldn't say, but something made her relent. With an almost maternal smile she patted him on the head and said, "Yes, I got you something to eat. You get a half an hour and then I want you right back to work, understood?"

"Oh yes, ma'am, thank you, ma'am, I'm ever so grateful, ma'am." Strangely enough, he found that he actually was. Gratitude was an emotion he was still getting to know in increments. At least the giving side of it, as a god he was more than familiar with receiving it, usually in abundance. Or at least he had been, back in the good old days.

"I'll get you a plate and some silverware."

"No thanks," he returned, plucking a white cardboard container from the bag as well as a pair of chopsticks.

"You know how to use those things?" The intense image of Trevor sending rice and lo mein flying hither and yon while blithely attempting to grasp it with his chopsticks settled in the forefront of her mind's eye. Of course, after a little consideration, it didn't seem like such a disaster. After all he'd just have to clean up the mess anyway.

"Of course," there was just a hint of offense in his tone, "What do you think I am, a heathen?"

"I've seen you eat pizza, Trevor, and if you have that much trouble using your bare hands I shudder to think what's going to happen when you try using those."

He merely picked up the sticks and proceeded, with great dexterity, to plow into the noodles. Smirking around a mouthful of Chinese food, he plopped down in her breakfast nook and began practically inhaling his lunch. She took the time to glance around the kitchen and was downright startled to note that it did indeed appear that Trevor had been working all afternoon. That couldn't be right. Wandering as nonchalantly as possible across the floor, she took the time to carefully inspect each flat surface for signs of neglect. The counters were indeed shiney enough to see her own reflection in, and each retained the light scent of lemon and ammonia. Ok, so he'd done the counters, what about the floor? Halfway across the kitchen Trevor noticed her inspection and before she could take more than a few steps yelled, "Stop!" around a mouthful of food.

She froze and stared at him quizzically.

"That part of the floor," he gestured with the chopsticks to where she was standing, "isn't done yet, you can walk on it. But this part." This time he pointed to his own area. "..is done, and you aren't allowed on it unless you're similarly attired."

"What does my clothing have to do with walking..."

Before she could finish he lifted a leg and wiggled one socked foot. "Oh." She truly wanted to argue this point, but for once in their acquaintance he was actually making sense. "Fine, I'll be right back." As she trotted upstairs Trevor settled back into his seat, that was until it occurred to him that she was heading up...possibly to her room... While his heart missed a beat or two, he tried desperately to remember if she kept her socks in the same drawer as her panties. If so he was, quite literally, one very dead deity.

"Think..." he mumbled, turning all of his prodigious mental acuity to the problem. Had he seen any socks in that drawer? He didn't think so, but shock had a funny way of clouding his memory. No, no he was pretty darn sure there weren't any socks in the drawer...willing to bet his life on it, though? Well, in a manner of speaking he just had. Lunch temporarily forgotten, Trevor crept once more to the doorway to listen. When no indignant shriek pierced the air after several long seconds he remembered to breath. He couldn't quite settle back down to eat until he could hear her padding softly back down the stairs.

She breezed back into the room as he once again plucked up the chopsticks. Big, warm, gray knit socks now covered her feet as she stepped cautiously around the room. The farthest corners seemed to meet with her approval, or at least that was how Trevor chose to interpret her thoughtful grunts and murmurs. When her eyes once again met his he almost thought he caught just a hint of admiration in them. "As hard as it is for me to believe this, it looks like you've actually done a good job here."

It took him a second to get past the vague insult at the beginning of her statement and interpret it as an overall compliment. He shrugged and gestured to one of the corners. "I found a huge spiderweb in that corner..er, I should say it found me." A shudder ran through him at the memory of those sticky filaments clinging to his hand. That was the last time he reached into a dark corner without a darn good inspection first. "So I got rid of it and relocated the owner outside."

Her head tilted to the side. "Why didn't you just squash it?"

Frowning he muttered, "Hey, I happen to have met Arachne before her little run in with Athena, I couldn't bring myself to splatter one of her kids...well, not in the kitchen anyway."

"What do you mean?"

"As far as I'm concerned I can live in complete harmony with our eight legged friends except where the bedroom and bathroom are concerned. Basically anywhere I'm likely to be naked and or vulnerable."

At that Claire actually laughed. "Sounds like a reasonable policy. Well it looks like you're making good progress in here, so I'm going to finish up my article. Just let me know when you're done ok?" Nodding, he munched happily on a mouthful of Chinese cabbage and water chestnuts. "And don't eat all the fortune cookies."


	15. Chapter 15

Three straight hours of staring forlornly at her laptop had produced exactly one more paragraph on her article. She'd re-read the damn thing at least two dozen times, but for some reason she just couldn't seem to make any headway. It might have had something to do with the fact that more often than not she'd start to read a sentence, and then find herself mouthing the words to whatever song Trevor was currently singing along with in the kitchen.

With a groan, she saved her work and shut the computer off. It was clear she wasn't going to get any farther today. As much as she hated admitting defeat, the idea of flipping on the t.v. and checking out what was on the Romance Classics channel was becoming increasingly appealing. Of course if she was going to commit to slacking off for the rest of the day she might just as well go whole hog. A can of Dr. Pepper and a bag of microwave popcorn was practically calling her name. And maybe some chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. Oh yeah, that had some definite promise.

On the other hand, she'd have to actually get into the kitchen, withstand at least half a dozen barbed comments from Trevor while the popcorn popped, then escape with her junk food before he could find a way to weasel some for himself. Claire wasn't altogether hopeful about her chances on accomplishing this.

Maybe she could just wait him out. Eventually he'd have to make a bathroom run, right? But could she get in there, pop the popcorn, and sneak back into the living room before he reappeared? Probably not. And then there was the unmistakable scent of buttery goodness that would permeate the house. Ok, make that definitely not.

Perhaps she could just go in there, tell him it was getting late and while she appreciated the fact that he was willing to tough it out he could really go for the day. A pat on the back for a job well done, and surely he'd be out the door before she'd even finished talking. Yeah, now this was a plan.

Practically trotting into the kitchen she nearly collided with Trevor coming in the opposite direction. They both let out a startled, "Oh!" before taking a quick step back.

"I was just..."

"I thought you might..."

A rather whimsical expression settled over Trevor's features at their overlapping words. He gestured for her to go first.

Claire folded her arms a little defensively over her chest and did her best to regain a generally professional air. "Oh, well I was just about to tell you that...well, it's getting dark out and...um, you could, you know, go...if you wanted to. I mean, you've done a great job today..."

"Really?" He looked almost ridiculously pleased at her words.

"Yes, you've managed to surpass my expectations...so if you wanted to go ahead and take off..."

"Actually I just came out here to tell you I was finished."

Her eyes widened with shock. "You're kidding. You...I mean, you're completely finished?"

"C'mon and take a look, boss, and tell me what you think."

Claire followed her patient into the freshly scrubbed room. The kitchen was pristine. Indeed, she'd seen surgical theaters less immaculate. Heck, she could've served a three course meal on the floor itself. Even her mother would've been hard pressed to find a single fault. Of course she didn't say that, instead she pronounced, "It looks fine."

Trevor gazed at her almost solemnly for several long seconds, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. A grin tugged at the corners of his lips as he said, "Eugene and I thank you."

Eugene? Claire considered asking him, then came to the immediate conclusion that she really didn't want to know.

"So, you gonna' try it out?"

"Try what out?"

"You know, clean kitchen floor..."

Perplexed, she shrugged and muttered, "And?"

Rolling his eyes, Trevor shook his head with mock disgust. "Now surely at some point in your childhood you understood the ramifications of a nice clean kitchen floor and a pair of thick, cushy socks." Seeing that the cloud of confusion clearly hadn't lifted he laughed, "Oh c'mon, do I have to spell this out for you?"

Instead, he chose to demonstrate. Two quick steps, and he propelled himself across the floor with the grace of an ice skater. Claire bit her lip to keep from giggling aloud, then glanced back out towards the dining room until she'd regained her composure. "Trevor, what are you doing?"

"What's it look like, Doc?" Two entirely mischievous brown eyes met hers. "C'mon, you know you want to..."

She watched him pirouette and do his best Scott Hamilton impersonation. "I'm not sliding around my kitchen, Trevor. Some of us gave that up at the same time we stopped reading Tiger Beat and chewing Bubble Yum."

"Why is that, do you suppose?" He paused in his twirling to regard his psychologist.

"Well most people outgrow those sorts of things...of course there are those among us who seem frozen in a sort of perpetual adolescence..."

"You make that sound like a bad thing. I, on the other hand, see it as a real bonus. I mean while you're standing there worried about being mature and not looking silly, I'm having a good time."

"I'm not worried about...I mean I just don't feel like making a fool of myself right now."

He watched her chew her lip for a second longer, then decided that if he were to look up the phrase "stick in the mud" in the dictionary her picture would undoubtedly sit right beside it. Well he wasn't going to let this opportunity go to waste. Skating closer to the radio he heard a familiar voice and reached over to turn it up. Sure enough the Soppster, morning d.j. and lackluster auctioneer was announcing the latest weather report. Trevor almost felt bad for the guy, first he'd been bullied into attending the Bachelor auction, now he was covering for the usual Sunday night guy. On the upside, it had made Trevor's plan a whole lot simpler.

Grinning again, he carried the radio closer to Claire, who continued to stand uncertainly in the doorway. Setting it on the nearest counter, he scooted the volume up just a tad more. Just in time too, as the Soppster was now moving onto his list of requests. "Now I've just had a request from a good pal of mine, so if you're listening, Trevor, enjoy. This one's for Claire, from her love slave."

Dr. Allen's eyebrows shot up as Trevor's smile widened. The crystal clear voice of Sam Cook purred across the airwaves, "Cupid...draw back your bow...And let your arrow go...straight to my lover's heart for me..."

She wanted to maintain a facade of calm professionalism, but it slipped repeatedly through her fingers as Trevor began to mime slow dancing by himself. His eyes shut, letting the song carry him along. "Cupid...please hear my cry...And let your arrow fly...straight to my lover's heart for me..." It was ridiculous, immature, and he was obviously making a complete fool out of himself. Claire recognized this, she truly did, but the funny thing was all she wanted to do was to join him. How long had it been since she'd let herself experience a simple childhood pleasure? She couldn't even remember the last time she'd done something impulsive and silly, just for the sheer dumb fun of it. And exactly who was going to see her making an idiot of herself anyway? Did it really matter? Unconsciously her body had already begun to sway side to side in time with the music. 'What the hell?' she thought.

The soft swoosh of another body joining him on his impromptu dance floor, startled him out of his reverie. Claire was merrily twirling around, not two feet from him. Together they belted out, "Now I don't mean to bother you, but I'm in distress...there's danger of me losing all of my happiness...for I love a girl who doesn't know I exist...and this you can fix!"

Catching her eyes again he chirped, "You know mom's always been ticked off that I got the better song...and that mine's never been covered by Bananarama."

Claire just chuckled and decided that this once she wouldn't remind him that whoever his mother was she definitely was not Venus. No, tonight she just felt too...happy. It struck her as odd sometimes that Trevor had the uncanny knack of making her forget that she was supposed to be a grown up professional. Well, she decided firmly, Dr. Allen could come back again tomorrow, but tonight she was going to let Claire out to play.

Sam Cook slowly faded away, much to Trevor's dismay, only to be replaced by Old Blue Eyes himself. Now this was surely a sign from the gods. Or at least that was how Trevor had decided to interpret this particular event. Sliding gracefully up to Claire, he held out his arms and invited her silently to dance with him.

Apparently not even Claire Allen herself was immune to Frank Sinatra, almost in spite of herself she moved forward. Their bodies fit together with an almost audible "click"...like they'd been made for this purpose and this purpose alone. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about that, but at the moment he had better things to do than contemplate things like fate and destiny.

 

"Blame it on the seasons  
Blame it on the reasons  
Blame it all on deju vu  
Blame it on the songs I wrote  
Blame it on the goodbye note  
Blame it on the rain that leaves you blue"

 

Trevor's hand settled on the small of her back, and Claire felt herself relaxing into his grasp.

 

"Blame it on the slow dances  
Blame it on the circumstances  
Blame it on a night beneath the stars  
Blame it on the songs I sing  
Blame it on your wedding ring  
Blame it on the streets and boulevards"

 

They spun together effortlessly, two bodies truly moving as one.

 

"But when you want to blame  
The angels up above  
You can blame it on me  
But you'd better blame it on love"

 

Trevor breathed in the vanilla and rose scent of Claire's perfume and began to feel a little lightheaded.

 

"Blame it on the silver screen  
Blame it on childhood dreams  
Blame it on your memories  
Blame it on the waking hours  
Blame it on the faded flowers  
Blame it on how it used to be"

Claire slid her free arm along Trevor's well muscled shoulders enjoying the feeling as they rippled beneath her sensitive fingers.

 

"Blame it on the telephone  
Blame it on time alone  
Blame it on the city lights  
Blame it on the alcohol  
Blame it on anything at all  
Blame it all on the night"

 

Eyes closed, and barely daring to breathe their cheeks pressed smoothly together.

 

"But when you want to blame  
The angels up above  
You can blame it on me  
But you'd better blame it on love"

 

Pulling back to regard one another, their movement slowed to a stop.

 

"You'd better blame it on love  
Better blame it all on love"

 

As Frankie's voice drifted off into a saxophone's plaintiff wail, Trevor's grip tightened, and he carefully, almost reverently, leaned Claire into a graceful dip. It was, both would later reflect, an odd moment. Realization of what they were doing, and more importantly, who they were doing it with, seemed to flood each one at the exact same second. Claire stiffened, and Trevor's features settled back into their usual half mocking expression. He straightened and set the doctor back on her feet, but it seemed to take him a moment or two to remember he needed to release her from his arms.

Claire cleared her throat and straightened her outfit while Trevor seemed to be groping blindly for a sarcastic comment. Finally she said the first thing that popped into her head, "You want some popcorn?"

His jaw hung open, as if her words had just zoomed right over the top of his head. Apparently he managed to catch up with them and form a response, "Um...sure."

She nodded decisively and turned to the cabinet. Pulling out one of the flattened bags she tossed it into the microwave and pressed the popcorn button. It hummed reassuringly and gave Claire something to focus on until this weirdness passed. Her eyes strayed up to the wall clock and realization caused her breath to catch. "Oh damn, it's almost time for the XFiles!"

Trevor, who'd been pretending to straighten up his meager cleaning supplies during the uncomfortable silence, quipped, "Wait, you, Miss Rational Explanation for Everything, are a fan of the XFiles?"

Frowning, she returned, "Yes I am. It's a well written, incredibly acted program, it's intelligent, artistic, and mentally demanding. It also contains one of the most interesting platonic relationships between a man and a woman on television today."

He listened to her prim recitation with a knowing smile. "Ah, and the fact that David Duchovny occasionally appears in a speedo has nothing to do with it, huh?" Not waiting for her reply, he continued, "But where do you get that they're so platonic?"

The microwave pinged, and she plucked the now steaming bag of popcorn out. Deftly opening it, the popcorn then tumbled into a large green bowl. "Well come on, we've never so much as seen them kiss, obviously they're platonic."

"Spoken like someone who never actually met the guy. I should mention that Plato was more of a 'do as I say, not as I do' kind of person. But, back to Mulder and Scully, just because we haven't seen them kiss doesn't mean it didn't happen off-screen."

She sighed and grabbed two cans of Dr. Pepper. "Trevor, they're not in a romantic relationship."

"Oh right, what about the movie?"

"Clearly Mulder was attempting to manipulate Scully into staying with him and the XFiles. And if you'll recall they didn't actually make lip to lip contact."

He giggled, following her back into the living room, "Manipulate her? Oh get real! The guy's obviously head over heels for the woman. He worships the ground she walks on, even you've gotta' admit that."

"Come on, he's clearly far too self absorbed and emotionally wounded to be capable of a mature, loving relationship. Certainly he needs her, but love..."

"Did you not watch 'Redux II'? What about the breakdown scene in her room?"

"Again, that's classic fear of abandonment not love."

As they sat down on the couch Trevor stared at her in absolute shock. "You're honestly trying to tell me that you don't think Mulder's in love with Scully?"

"I think he may believe he's in love with her, but that he's not emotionally stable enough to actually be in love with her."

"So that whole rescue in the film was what, just a partnership thing? Get real! If somebody hauls my frozen heiney off an alien spacecraft in the middle of the Antarctic they can expect to find me waiting for them each night at home wearing an apron and a smile!"

"Now you're confusing gratitude with love."

"No, I'm saying that level of devotion doesn't lead one to conclude that those two merely have a good working relationship. I mean I like you and all, Claire, but I doubt I'd be running off to an iceberg to rescue you if you got stung by one of the Consortium's bees."

"Well that's certainly a comfort." she returned wryly.

Addressing the ceiling she heard him mutter, "Next she'll tell me she didn't find the English Patient romantic."

"Well, actually I thought the heroine was making a bad decision..."

His eyes were absolutely round with horror. "Wait, you were playing 'Can this Marriage be Saved?' during the English Patient? My god woman, have you no soul?"

"I just happen to think that a little good judgment wouldn't have come amiss in that story. I mean clearly her husband was in love with her and committed to making the relationship work..."

"Or else running her and her lover over with a plane, whichever came first." Holding up his hands in mock surrender, Trevor groaned, "Just stop right here, ok? I'd like to leave here tonight with just a few of my illusions intact."

As the familiarly haunting theme song of the XFiles came on both settled back comfortably on the couch. Claire settled the bowl between them and each soda went on a coaster on the coffee table. The two watched in amiable silence for several moments before Trevor blurted, "Oh look, look, do you see the look he's giving her? That is so love. Believe me I've been seeing it for centuries and I can always tell. Heck, I had that Odo/Kira thing on Deep Space Nine figured out from the first season!"

Claire's lips pursed and she growled, "Trevor, it occurs to me that I still own you for the next few hours." He swallowed a bit nervously then reluctantly nodded. "So unless you'd like to spend a little time giving my bathroom the same treatment you did the kitchen I'd suggest you keep your opinions to yourself."

Trevor's eyes flickered from the screen to her face and back again. "I am entirely jiggy with that."

"Good."

"But you're still wrong...just for the record."

"Duly noted, now shut up and watch the show."

\---

By the time Trevor left Claire's brownstone a light snow had begun to fall, coating everything in sight in a blanket of white. He paused long enough to take his first breath of freedom in forty-eight hours and found it both cool and intoxicating. There was just something different about the world tonight, a certain...magic. Smiling, he leaned his head back to catch a few snowflakes on his tongue.

Suddenly the peaceful silence around him was shattered by a decidedly feminine shriek. Turning, he noticed that Claire's bedroom light was on. Comprehension flooded him, and before she could make it down the stairs he was trotting back to his apartment with as much speed as he could manage on the slippery sidewalks.

No, it wasn't the most courageous thing he'd ever done, but these past few months on Earth had taught the God of Love one very important lesson: discretion is the better part of valor. Well, upon reflection, make that two: revenge is a dish best served...from a distance...

Humming merrily to himself, Trevor glanced skyward and said, "Well, you wanted this to be a learning experience, didn't you?" Maybe this whole exile thing wasn't going to be a complete waste of time after all.


End file.
